A 400-Year-Old Ring that Unfolds to Track the Movements of the Heavens


Rings with a dis­creet dual pur­pose have been in use since before the com­mon era, when Han­ni­bal, fac­ing extra­di­tion, alleged­ly ingest­ed the poi­son he kept secret­ed behind a gem­stone on his fin­ger. (More recent­ly, poi­son rings gave rise to a pop­u­lar Game of Thrones fan the­o­ry…)

Vic­to­ri­ans pre­vent­ed their most close­ly kept secrets—illicit love let­ters, per­haps? Last wills and testaments?—from falling into the wrong hands by wear­ing the keys to the box­es con­tain­ing these items con­cealed in signet rings and oth­er state­ment-type pieces.

A tiny con­cealed blade could be lethal on the fin­ger of a skilled (and no doubt, beau­ti­ful) assas­sin. These days, they might be used to col­lect a bit of one’s attack­er’s DNA.

Enter the fic­tion­al world of James Bond, and you’ll find a num­ber of handy dandy spy rings includ­ing one that dou­bles as a cam­era, and anoth­er capa­ble of shat­ter­ing bul­let­proof glass with a sin­gle twist.

Armil­lary sphere rings like the ones in the British Muse­um’s col­lec­tion and the Swedish His­tor­i­cal Muse­um (top) serve a more benign pur­pose. Fold­ed togeth­er, the two-part out­er hoop and three inte­ri­or hoops give the illu­sion of a sim­ple gold band. Slipped off the wearer’s fin­ger, they can fan out into a phys­i­cal mod­el of celes­tial lon­gi­tude and lat­i­tude.

Art his­to­ri­an Jes­si­ca Stew­art writes that in the 17th cen­tu­ry, rings such as the above spec­i­men were “used by astronomers to study and make cal­cu­la­tions. These pieces of jew­el­ry were con­sid­ered tokens of knowl­edge. Inscrip­tions or zodi­ac sym­bols were often used as dec­o­ra­tive ele­ments on the bands.”

The armil­lary sphere rings in the British Museum’s col­lec­tion are made of a soft high-alloy gold.

Jew­el­ry-lov­ing mod­ern astronomers seek­ing an old school fin­ger-based cal­cu­la­tion tool that real­ly works can order armil­lary sphere rings from Brook­lyn-based design­er Black Adept.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2021.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

A 16th-Cen­tu­ry Astron­o­my Book Fea­tured “Ana­log Com­put­ers” to Cal­cu­late the Shape of the Moon, the Posi­tion of the Sun, and More

When Astronomer Johannes Kepler Wrote the First Work of Sci­ence Fic­tion, The Dream (1609)

The Rem­brandt Book Bracelet: Behold a Func­tion­al Bracelet Fea­tur­ing 1400 Rem­brandt Draw­ings

Behold the Astro­nom­icum Cae­sareum, â€śPer­haps the Most Beau­ti­ful Sci­en­tif­ic Book Ever Print­ed” (1540)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist in New York City.

How Saul Bass Designed the Strange Original Poster for Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining

With Hal­loween just days away, many of us are even now ready­ing a scary movie or two to watch on the night itself. If you’re still unde­cid­ed about your own Hal­loween view­ing mate­r­i­al, allow us to sug­gest The Shin­ing, Stan­ley Kubrick­’s “mas­ter­piece of mod­ern hor­ror.” Those words come straight from the orig­i­nal poster hung up at the­aters when the film was released in 1980, and pre­sump­tu­ous though they may have sound­ed at the time — espe­cial­ly con­sid­er­ing the mixed first wave of crit­i­cal recep­tion — the decades have proven them right. Even if you’ve watched it for ten, twen­ty, forty Hal­loweens in a row, The Shin­ing remains fright­en­ing on both the jump-scare and exis­ten­tial-dread lev­els, while its each and every frame appears more clear­ly than ever to be the work of an auteur.

One could hard­ly find a more suit­able fig­ure to rep­re­sent the notion of the auteur — the direc­tor as pri­ma­ry “author” of a film — than Kubrick, whose aes­thet­ic and intel­lec­tu­al sen­si­bil­i­ty comes through in all of his major pic­tures, each of which belongs to a dif­fer­ent genre. Kubrick had tried his hand at film noir, World War I, swords-and-san­dals epic, psy­cho­log­i­cal dra­ma, Cold War black com­e­dy, sci­ence fic­tion, dystopi­an crime, and cos­tume dra­ma; a much-reworked adap­ta­tion of Stephen King’s nov­el, The Shin­ing rep­re­sents, of course, Kubrick­’s for­ay into hor­ror.

Despite the famous­ly quick-and-dirty ten­den­cies of that defi­ant­ly unre­spectable cin­e­mat­ic tra­di­tion, Kubrick exer­cised, if any­thing, an even greater degree of metic­u­lous­ness than that for which he was already noto­ri­ous, demand­ing per­fec­tion not just on set, but also in the cre­ation of the mar­ket­ing mate­ri­als.

Accord­ing to the new Paper & Light video above, famed design­er Saul Bass (who’d pre­vi­ous­ly cre­at­ed the title sequence of Kubrick­’s Spar­ta­cus) did more than 300 draw­ings for The Shin­ing’s movie poster. The only con­cept that met with the direc­tor’s approval placed a ter­ri­fied, vague­ly inhu­man vis­age inside the let­ter­ing of the title. We don’t know whose face it’s sup­posed to be, but Paper & Light haz­ards a guess that it may be that of Dan­ny, the young son of the Over­look Hotel’s doomed care­tak­er Jack Tor­rance, or even Dan­ny’s invis­i­ble friend Tony. (Note the con­tain­ment of all of its fea­tures with­in the T.) Though Kubrick cred­it­ed Bass’ final design with solv­ing “the eter­nal prob­lem of try­ing to com­bine art­work with the title of the film,” The Shin­ing’s bright yel­low poster now sits some­how uneasi­ly with the movie’s lega­cy, more as a curios­i­ty than an icon. Nev­er­the­less, it does evoke — and maybe too well — what we’ll all hope to feel when we press play this, or any, Hal­loween night.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Saul Bass’ Reject­ed Poster Con­cepts for The Shin­ing (and His Pret­ty Excel­lent Sig­na­ture)

Who Cre­at­ed the Famous Show­er Scene in Psy­cho? Alfred Hitch­cock or the Leg­endary Design­er Saul Bass?

Watch Saul Bass’s Trip­py, Kitschy Short Film The Quest (1983), Based on a Ray Brad­bury Short Sto­ry

The Invis­i­ble Hor­ror of The Shin­ing: How Music Makes Stan­ley Kubrick’s Icon­ic Film Even More Ter­ri­fy­ing

40 Years of Saul Bass’ Ground­break­ing Title Sequences in One Com­pi­la­tion

Saul Bass’ Advice for Design­ers: Make Some­thing Beau­ti­ful and Don’t Wor­ry About the Mon­ey

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

How Did The World Get So Ugly?: Then Versus Now

More than a few of us might be inter­est­ed in the oppor­tu­ni­ty to spend a day in Vic­to­ri­an Lon­don. But very few of us indeed who’ve ever read, say, a Charles Dick­ens nov­el would ever elect to live there. “Lon­don’s lit­tle lanes are charm­ing now,” says Shee­han Quirke, the host of the video above, while stand­ing in one of them, “but 150 years ago in places like this, you’d have had whole fam­i­lies crammed into these tiny rooms with­out run­ning water. There would have been open cesspits spilling down the streets, and the stench of sewage boil­ing in the mid­day sun would have been unbear­able.” The stink­ing city, already the biggest in the world and grow­ing every day, “was­n’t only hor­ri­ble to live in, but gen­uine­ly dan­ger­ous.”

Much of the tremen­dous amount of waste pro­duced by Lon­don­ers went straight into the Riv­er Thames, which even­tu­al­ly grew so foul that the engi­neer Joseph Bazal­gette took on the job of design­ing not just a sew­er sys­tem, but also an embank­ment to “replace what was essen­tial­ly a stink­ing swamp filled with rub­bish and human waste and eels.” Though emi­nent­ly, even mirac­u­lous­ly func­tion­al, Bazal­get­te’s design was­n’t util­i­tar­i­an.

After its com­ple­tion in 1870, the embank­ment was lined with elab­o­rate­ly dec­o­rat­ed lamps (some of the first pieces of elec­tric light­ing in the world) that still catch the eye of passers­by today, well into the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry. “We don’t asso­ciate dec­o­ra­tion with cut­ting-edge tech­nol­o­gy, and that’s a major dif­fer­ence between us and the Vic­to­ri­ans,” who “saw no con­tra­dic­tion between star­tling moder­ni­ty and time-hon­ored tra­di­tion.”

Quirke became renowned as The Cul­tur­al Tutor a few years ago on the social media plat­form then called Twit­ter. His threads have cul­ti­vat­ed the under­stand­ing of count­less many read­ers about a host of sub­jects to do with his­to­ry, art, archi­tec­ture, music, and design, with an eye toward the ways in which past civ­i­liza­tions may have done them bet­ter than ours does. The Vic­to­ri­ans, for instance, may have lacked mod­ern ameni­ties that none of us could live with­out, but they designed even their sewage pump­ing sta­tions “with the same orna­men­tal exu­ber­ance as any church or palace.” Per­haps they thought their san­i­ta­tion work­ers deserved beau­ti­ful sur­round­ings; they cer­tain­ly had “a sense of pride, a belief that what they’d done here was worth­while, that it meant some­thing.” Cur­rent infra­struc­ture, large-scale and small, is tech­no­log­i­cal­ly supe­ri­or, yet almost none of it is worth regard­ing, to put it mild­ly. Whether our own civ­i­liza­tion could return to beau­ty is the ques­tion at the heart of Quirke’s enter­prise — and one his grow­ing group of fol­low­ers has begun to ask them­selves every time they step out­side.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Why Do Peo­ple Hate Mod­ern Archi­tec­ture?: A Video Essay

Richard Feyn­man on Beau­ty

Why Dutch & Japan­ese Cities Are Insane­ly Well Designed (and Amer­i­can Cities Are Ter­ri­bly Designed)

Dis­cov­er The Gram­mar of Orna­ment, One of the Great Col­or Books & Design Mas­ter­pieces of the 19th Cen­tu­ry

Dieter Rams Lists the 10 Time­less Prin­ci­ples of Good Design — Backed by Music by Bri­an Eno

Saul Bass’ Advice for Design­ers: Make Some­thing Beau­ti­ful and Don’t Wor­ry About the Mon­ey

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

Explore a New Digital Edition of Printing Types, the Authoritative History of Printing & Typography from 1922

Times New Roman has been around since 1931, longer than most of us have been alive — and for longer than many of us have been alive, word-pro­cess­ing appli­ca­tions have come with it as the default font. We tend, there­fore, to regard it less as some­thing cre­at­ed than as some­thing for all intents and pur­pos­es eter­nal, but there was a time when pub­lish­ers had to active­ly adopt it. The first Amer­i­can firm to start using Times New Roman was the Mer­ry­mount Press, which had already made a high­ly pres­ti­gious name for itself with pub­li­ca­tions like the ele­gant Book of Com­mon Prayer financed by no less a cap­tain of indus­try than J. Pier­pont Mor­gan. But oth­er print­ers knew Mer­ry­mount for a book that would have inspired in them an equal­ly wor­ship­ful impulse.

“Released in 1922 with a lat­er revi­sion in 1937,” Print­ing Types: Their His­to­ry, Forms and Use “became known as the stan­dard work on the his­to­ry of [print­ing and typog­ra­phy] and a basic book for all inter­est­ed in the graph­ic arts. This two-vol­ume work spans near­ly 450 years and includes detailed analy­ses of the print­ers and type design­ers and their work.”

So writes the design­er Nicholas Rougeux, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture for his dig­i­tal edi­tions of vin­tage books like Illus­tra­tions of the Nat­ur­al Orders of Plants; British & Exot­ic Min­er­al­o­gy; A Mono­graph of the Trochilidæ, or Fam­i­ly of Hum­ming-Birds; Werner’s Nomen­cla­ture of Colours; Euclid’s Ele­ments, and Pierre-Joseph Red­outé’s col­lec­tions of rose and lily illus­tra­tions. His lat­est project to go live is a painstak­ing­ly assem­bled dig­i­tal edi­tion of Print­ing Types, which you can explore here.

That book was also orig­i­nal­ly the work of one man, Mer­ry­mount Press founder Daniel Berke­ley Updike. â€śDur­ing his tenure at Har­vard Uni­ver­si­ty, he taught a course on Tech­nique of Print­ing in the Grad­u­ate School of Busi­ness Admin­is­tra­tion for five years,” Rougeux writes, “the lec­tures of which served as the basis for Print­ing Types.” In the book, Updike offers a his­to­ry of “the art of typog­ra­phy from the dawn of West­ern print­ing in the fif­teenth cen­tu­ry to the begin­ning of the twen­ti­eth — focus­ing pri­mar­i­ly on Euro­pean print­ing in Ger­many, France, Italy, the Nether­lands, Spain, and Eng­land as well as the Unit­ed States.” In trac­ing “the devel­op­ment of type design,” he also dis­cuss­es “the impor­tance of each his­toric peri­od and the lessons they con­tain for con­tem­po­rary design­ers.”

Orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished in 1922 and exten­sive­ly revised in 1937, Print­ing Types long stood as the author­i­ta­tive his­to­ry of typog­ra­phy in the Latin alpha­bet, with its “more than 360 fac­sim­i­le illus­tra­tions show­cas­ing exam­ples of typog­ra­phy, bor­ders, flow­ers, and pages pulled from the books cov­ered.” Track­ing down the sources of those illus­tra­tions con­sti­tut­ed no small part of the painstak­ing pro­duc­tion of Rougeux’s dig­i­tal edi­tion, and the 100 of them most high­ly praised by Updike have also been made avail­able for pur­chase in poster form. For those who do a lot of work with text, in print or dig­i­tal forms, it could pro­vide just as much moti­va­tion as an actu­al copy of Print­ing Types on the shelf to find our way beyond the defaults.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­to­ry of Typog­ra­phy Told in Five Ani­mat­ed Min­utes

See How The Guten­berg Press Worked: Demon­stra­tion Shows the Old­est Func­tion­ing Guten­berg Press in Action

Dis­cov­er the First Illus­trat­ed Book Print­ed in Eng­lish, William Caxton’s Mir­ror of the World (1481)

The Art of Col­lo­type: See a Near Extinct Print­ing Tech­nique, as Lov­ing­ly Prac­ticed by a Japan­ese Mas­ter Crafts­man

Behold a Dig­i­ti­za­tion of “The Most Beau­ti­ful of All Print­ed Books,” The Kelm­scott Chaucer

Fonts in Use: Enter a Giant Archive of Typog­ra­phy, Fea­tur­ing 12,618 Type­faces

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

Explore and Download 14,000+ Woodcuts from Antwerp’s Plantin-Moretus Museum Online Archive

We appre­ci­ate illu­mi­nat­ed man­u­scripts and his­tor­i­cal books here on Open Cul­ture, adhere though we do to a much more restrained aes­thet­ic style in our own texts. But that’s not to deny the temp­ta­tion to start this para­graph with one of those over­sized ini­tial let­ters that grew ever larg­er and more elab­o­rate over cen­turies past. The online archive of Antwer­p’s Plan­tin-More­tus Muse­um offers plen­ty of wood­cut Ws to choose from, includ­ing designs sober and bare­ly leg­i­ble, as well as Ws that incor­po­rate a sprout­ing plant, some kind of saint, and even a scene of what looks like impend­ing mur­der.

If you’re not in the mar­ket for fan­cy let­ters, you can also browse the Plan­tin-More­tus wood­cut archive through the cat­e­gories of plants, ani­mals, and sci­ences. Some of these illus­tra­tions are tech­ni­cal, and oth­ers more fan­ci­ful; in cer­tain cas­es, the cen­turies have prob­a­bly ren­dered them less real­is­tic-look­ing than once they were.

Not all the more than 14,000 wood­cuts now in the archive would seem to fit neat­ly in one of those cat­e­gories, but if you take a look at par­tic­u­lar entries, you’ll find that the muse­um has also labeled them with more spe­cif­ic tags, like “clas­si­cal antiq­ui­ty,” “map/landscape,” or “aure­ole” (the bright medieval-look­ing halo that marks a fig­ure as holy).

All these wood­cuts, in any case, have been made free to down­load (just click the cloud icon in the upper-right of the win­dow that opens after you click on the image itself) and use as you please. Back in the six­teenth cen­tu­ry, Christophe Plan­tin and Jan More­tus, for whom the Plan­tin-More­tus Muse­um was named, were well-placed to col­lect such things. The Plan­tin-More­tus Muse­um’s web­site describes them as “a rev­o­lu­tion­ary duo.

They were the first print­ers on an indus­tri­al scale — the Steve Jobs and Mark Zucker­berg of their day.” And if these decon­tex­tu­al­ized arti­facts of the print rev­o­lu­tion strike us as a bit strange to us today, just imag­ine how our sur­viv­ing inter­net memes will look four cen­turies hence. Enter the wood­block col­lec­tion here.

via Metafil­ter

Relat­ed con­tent:

Down­load 215,000 Japan­ese Wood­block Prints by Mas­ters Span­ning the Tradition’s 350-Year His­to­ry

800 Illu­mi­nat­ed Medieval Man­u­scripts Are Now Online: Browse & Down­load Them Cour­tesy of the British Library and Bib­lio­thèque Nationale de France

Stephen Fry Takes Us Inside the Sto­ry of Johannes Guten­berg & the First Print­ing Press

Behold the Beau­ti­ful Pages from a Medieval Monk’s Sketch­book: A Win­dow Into How Illu­mi­nat­ed Man­u­scripts Were Made (1494)

Clas­sic Films and Film­mak­ers, Ren­dered in Wood­cut By a Los Ange­les Artist-Cinephile

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

20 Mesmerizing Videos of Japanese Artisans Creating Traditional Handicrafts

In Japan­ese “tewaza” means “hand tech­nique” or “hand­craft” and, in this YouTube playlist of 20 short films, var­i­ous arti­sanal tech­niques are explored and demon­strat­ed by Japan­ese mas­ters in the field. For those who are both obsessed with Japan­ese art and watch­ing things get made, these videos are cat­nip. There’s very lit­tle spo­ken, except a few quotes from the mak­ers them­selves, and gen­tle music plays over shots of del­i­cate, intri­cate, and con­fi­dent hand­i­work.

Watch the video up top, a look at how a small group of men forge a Sakai knife. (Yes, we keep expect­ing the music to turn into the Lau­ra Palmer’s Theme too.) No words are nec­es­sary in this exact­ing demon­stra­tion, and just check out the wood-like grain in the met­al.

And the names of these goods denote the towns of origin–Sakai is just out­side Osa­ka, and is one of Japan’s main sea­ports and, yes, known for its knives.

Oth­er videos show the mak­ing of hand­made washi paper from Mino; stun­ning gold leaf pro­duc­tion from Kanaza­wa; paper lantern making from Gifu; dec­o­rat­ed wall­pa­per from Ueno; a Kumano writ­ing brush, and very del­i­cate bam­boo weav­ing from Bep­pu that looks so pre­cise it’s like it’s made by machine, but no, this is all in the eye.

The YouTube chan­nel that has pro­duced these videos, Aoya­ma Square, is a lit­er­al one-stop shop in Tokyo for all the kinds of crafts seen in the videos, and is a mem­ber of the Japan­ese nation­al asso­ci­a­tion that pro­motes and keeps these skills and mini-indus­tries alive. So is this one long ad for a large crafts empo­ri­um? Well, could be. Do we still want to buy some of that beau­ti­ful lac­quer­ware from Echizen? Oh yes, very much so.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Japan­ese Things Are Made in 309 Videos: Bam­boo Tea Whisks, Hina Dolls, Steel Balls & More

The Beau­ti­ful Art of Mak­ing Japan­ese Cal­lig­ra­phy Ink Out of Soot & Glue

Watch a Japan­ese Crafts­man Lov­ing­ly Bring a Tat­tered Old Book Back to Near Mint Con­di­tion

Watch a Japan­ese Arti­san Make a Noh Mask, Cre­at­ing an Aston­ish­ing Char­ac­ter From a Sin­gle Block of Wood

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

Buckminster Fuller’s Map of the World: The Innovation That Revolutionized Map Design (1943)

In 2017, we brought you news of a world map pur­port­ed­ly more accu­rate than any to date, designed by Japan­ese archi­tect and artist Hajime Narukawa. The map, called the Autha­Graph, updates a cen­turies-old method of turn­ing the globe into a flat sur­face by first con­vert­ing it to a cylin­der. Win­ner of Japan’s Good Design Grand Award, it serves as both a bril­liant design solu­tion and an update to our out­mod­ed con­cep­tions of world geog­ra­phy.

But as some read­ers have point­ed out, the Autha­Graph also seems to draw quite heav­i­ly on an ear­li­er map made by one of the most vision­ary of the­o­rists and design­ers, Buck­min­ster Fuller, who in 1943 applied his Dymax­ion trade­mark to the map you see above, which will like­ly remind you of his most rec­og­niz­able inven­tion, the Geo­des­ic Dome, “house of the future.”

Whether Narukawa has acknowl­edged Fuller as an inspi­ra­tion I can­not say. In any case, 73 years before the Autha­Graph, the Dymax­ion Map achieved a sim­i­lar feat, with sim­i­lar moti­va­tions. As the Buck­min­ster Fuller Insti­tute (BFI) points out, “The Fuller Pro­jec­tion Map is [or was] the only flat map of the entire sur­face of the Earth which reveals our plan­et as one island in the ocean, with­out any visu­al­ly obvi­ous dis­tor­tion of the rel­a­tive shapes and sizes of the land areas, and with­out split­ting any con­ti­nents.”

Fuller pub­lished his map in Life mag­a­zine, as a cor­rec­tive, he said, “for the lay­man, engrossed in belat­ed, war-taught lessons in geog­ra­phy…. The Dymax­ion World map is a means by which he can see the whole world fair­ly at once.” Fuller, notes Kelsey Camp­bell-Dol­laghan at Giz­mo­do, “intend­ed the Dymax­ion World map to serve as a tool for com­mu­ni­ca­tion and col­lab­o­ra­tion between nations.”

Fuller believed, writes BFI, that “giv­en a way to visu­al­ize the whole plan­et with greater accu­ra­cy, we humans will be bet­ter equipped to address chal­lenges as we face our com­mon future aboard Space­ship Earth.” Was he naĂŻve or ahead of his time?

We may have had a good laugh at a recent repli­ca of Fuller’s near­ly undriv­able, “scary as hell,” 1930 Dymax­ion Car, one of his first inven­tions. Many of Fuller’s con­tem­po­raries also found his work bizarre and imprac­ti­cal. Eliz­a­beth Kol­bert at The New York­er sums up the recep­tion he often received for his “schemes,” which “had the hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry qual­i­ty asso­ci­at­ed with sci­ence fic­tion (or men­tal hos­pi­tals).” The com­men­tary seems unfair.

Fuller’s influ­ence on archi­tec­ture, design, and sys­tems the­o­ry has been broad and deep, though many of his designs only res­onat­ed long after their debut. He thought of him­self as an “antic­i­pa­to­ry design sci­en­tist,” rather than an inven­tor, and remarked, “if you want to teach peo­ple a new way of think­ing, don’t both­er try­ing to teach them. Instead, give them a tool, the use of which will lead to new ways of think­ing.” In this sense, we must agree that the Dymax­ion map was an unqual­i­fied suc­cess as an inspi­ra­tion for inno­v­a­tive map design.

In addi­tion to its pos­si­bly indi­rect influ­ence on the Autha­Graph, Fuller’s map has many promi­nent imi­ta­tors and sparked â€śa rev­o­lu­tion in map­ping,” writes Camp­bell-Dol­laghan. She points us to, among oth­ers, the Cryos­phere, fur­ther up, a Fuller map “arranged based on ice, snow, glac­i­ers, per­mafrost and ice sheets”; to Dubai-based Emi­rates airline’s map show­ing flight routes; and to the “Google­spiel,” an inter­ac­tive Dymax­ion map built by Rehab­stu­dio for Google Devel­op­er Day, 2011.

And, just above, we see the Dymax­ion Woodocean World map by Nicole San­tuc­ci, win­ner of 2013’s DYMAX REDUX, an “open call to cre­ate a new and inspir­ing inter­pre­ta­tion of Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Dymax­ion Map.” You’ll find a hand­ful of oth­er unique sub­mis­sions at BFI, includ­ing the run­ner-up, Clouds Dymax­ion Map, below, by Anne-Gaelle Amiot, an “absolute­ly beau­ti­ful hand-drawn depic­tion of a real­i­ty that is almost always edit­ed from our maps: cloud pat­terns cir­cling above Earth.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Japan­ese Design­ers May Have Cre­at­ed the Most Accu­rate Map of Our World: See the Autha­Graph

A Har­row­ing Test Dri­ve of Buck­min­ster Fuller’s 1933 Dymax­ion Car: Art That Is Scary to Ride

The Life & Times of Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Geo­des­ic Dome: A Doc­u­men­tary

Buck­min­ster Fuller Tells the World “Every­thing He Knows” in a 42-Hour Lec­ture Series (1975)

Bertrand Rus­sell & Buck­min­ster Fuller on Why We Should Work Less, and Live and Learn More

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

Buckminster Fuller Tells the World “Everything He Knows” in a 42-Hour Lecture Series (1975)

His­to­ry seems to have set­tled Buck­min­ster Fuller’s rep­u­ta­tion as a man ahead of his time. He inspires short, wit­ty pop­u­lar videos like YouTu­ber Joe Scott’s “The Man Who Saw The Future,” and the ongo­ing lega­cy of the Buck­min­ster Fuller Insti­tute (BFI), who note that “Fuller’s ideas and work con­tin­ue to influ­ence new gen­er­a­tions of design­ers, archi­tects, sci­en­tists and artists work­ing to cre­ate a sus­tain­able plan­et.”

Bril­liant futur­ist though he was, Fuller might also be called the man who saw the present and the past—as much as a sin­gle indi­vid­ual could seem­ing­ly hold in their mind at once. He was “a man who is intense­ly inter­est­ed in almost every­thing,” wrote Calvin Tomkins at The New York­er in 1965, the year of Fuller’s 70th birth­day. Fuller was as eager to pass on as much knowl­edge as he could col­lect in his long, pro­duc­tive career, span­ning his ear­ly epipha­nies in the 1920s to his final pub­lic talks in the ear­ly 80s.

“The some­what over­whelm­ing effect of a Fuller mono­logue,” wrote Tomkins, “is well known today in many parts of the world.” His lec­tures leapt from sub­ject to sub­ject, incor­po­rat­ing ancient and mod­ern his­to­ry, math­e­mat­ics, lin­guis­tics, archi­tec­ture, archae­ol­o­gy, phi­los­o­phy, reli­gion, and—in the exam­ple Tomkins gives—“irrefutable data on tides, pre­vail­ing winds,” and “boat design.” His dis­cours­es issue forth in wave after wave of infor­ma­tion.

Fuller could talk at length and with author­i­ty about vir­tu­al­ly anything—especially about him­self and his own work, in his own spe­cial jar­gon of “unique Bucky-isms: spe­cial phras­es, ter­mi­nol­o­gy, unusu­al sen­tence struc­tures, etc.,” writes BFI. He may not always have been par­tic­u­lar­ly hum­ble, yet he spoke and wrote with a lack of prej­u­dice and an open curios­i­ty and that is the oppo­site of arro­gance. Such is the impres­sion we get of Fuller in the series of talks he record­ed ten years after Tomkin’s New York­er por­trait.

Made in Jan­u­ary of 1975, Buck­min­ster Fuller: Every­thing I Know cap­tured Fuller’s “entire life’s work” in 42 hours of “think­ing out loud lec­tures [that exam­ine] in depth all of Fuller’s major inven­tions and dis­cov­er­ies from the 1927 Dymax­ion car, house, car and bath­room, through the Wichi­ta House, geo­des­ic domes, and tenseg­ri­ty struc­tures, as well as the con­tents of Syn­er­get­ics. Auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal in parts, Fuller recounts his own per­son­al his­to­ry in the con­text of the his­to­ry of sci­ence and indus­tri­al­iza­tion.”

He begins, how­ev­er, in his first lec­ture at the top, not with him­self, but with his pri­ma­ry sub­ject of con­cern: “all human­i­ty,” a species that begins always in naked­ness and igno­rance and man­ages to fig­ure it out “entire­ly by tri­al and error,” he says. Fuller mar­vels at the advances of “ear­ly Hin­du and Chi­nese” civilizations—as he had at the Maori in Tomkin’s anec­dote, who “had been among the first peo­ples to dis­cov­er the prin­ci­ples of celes­tial nav­i­ga­tion” and “found a way of sail­ing around the world… at least ten thou­sand years ago.”

The leap from ancient civ­i­liza­tions to “what is called World War I” is “just a lit­tle jump in infor­ma­tion,” he says in his first lec­ture, but when Fuller comes to his own life­time, he shows how many “lit­tle jumps” one human being could wit­ness in a life­time in the 20th cen­tu­ry. “The year I was born Mar­coni invent­ed the wire­less,” says Fuller. “When I was 14 man did get to the North Pole, and when I was 16 he got to the South Pole.”

When Fuller was 7, “the Wright broth­ers sud­den­ly flew,” he says, “and my mem­o­ry is vivid enough of sev­en to remem­ber that for about a year the engi­neer­ing soci­eties were try­ing to prove it was a hoax because it was absolute­ly impos­si­ble for man to do that.” What it showed young Bucky Fuller was that “impos­si­bles are hap­pen­ing.” If Fuller was a vision­ary, he rede­fined the word—as a term for those with an expan­sive, infi­nite­ly curi­ous vision of a pos­si­ble world that already exists all around us.

See Fuller’s com­plete lec­ture series, Every­thing I Know, at the Inter­net Archive, and read edit­ed tran­scripts of his talks at the Buck­min­ster Fuller Insti­tute.

Every­thing I Know will be added to our col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Bertrand Rus­sell & Buck­min­ster Fuller on Why We Should Work Less, and Live and Learn More

A Har­row­ing Test Dri­ve of Buck­min­ster Fuller’s 1933 Dymax­ion Car: Art That Is Scary to Ride

The Life & Times of Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Geo­des­ic Dome: A Doc­u­men­tary

Buck­min­ster Fuller Doc­u­ment­ed His Life Every 15 Min­utes, from 1920 Until 1983

Buck­min­ster Fuller, Isaac Asi­mov & Oth­er Futur­ists Make Pre­dic­tions About the 21st Cen­tu­ry in 1967: What They Got Right & Wrong

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

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