How the Hoover Dam Works: A 3D Animated Introduction

When it comes to tourist pil­grim­age sites in the Unit­ed States, the Hoover Dam may not quite rank up there with the Stat­ue of Lib­er­ty, the Lin­coln Memo­r­i­al, Mount Rush­more, the Grand Canyon, or Dis­ney­land. But that’s not due to a lack of impor­tance, nor even a lack of impres­sive­ness. Prop­er appre­ci­a­tion of its man-made majesty, how­ev­er, requires an under­stand­ing of not just the vital func­tion it serves, but the enor­mous task of its con­struc­tion. The guides at the Hoover Dam have been trained to explain just that to its many vis­i­tors, of course, but all of us could ben­e­fit from going in pre­pared with a lit­tle knowl­edge. Watch the hour-long video on the dam’s design and con­struc­tion from Ani­ma­graffs above, and you may be pre­pared with enough knowl­edge to tell the guides a thing or two.

Ani­ma­graffs is the YoT­tube chan­nel of Jacob O’Neal, which we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture for its acclaimed expla­na­tions on a six­teenth-cen­tu­ry explor­er’s sail­ing ship and the Gold­en Gate Bridge, anoth­er icon­ic con­struc­tion project of the Great Depres­sion. Like those, his Hoover Dam video uses detailed 3D mod­els based on seri­ous research, not least into the pro­jec­t’s orig­i­nal design doc­u­ments.

This allows O’Neal to show each ele­ment of the dam and its com­plex sys­tem of sup­port­ing infra­struc­ture in detail and from every angle, as well as in a kind of x‑ray vision. We’ve all seen pho­tographs of the Hoover Dam, and maybe even bought some from its gift shop, but even the most sub­lime aer­i­al view does­n’t reveal as much about its ambi­tion as a look into its inner work­ings.

And the ambi­tion of the Hoover Dam is one aspect guar­an­teed to impress any view­ers. It required thou­sands of work­ers about five years to re-shape the Neva­da and Ari­zona land­scape at a grand enough scale to make pos­si­ble human con­trol of the mighty — and, more to the point, might­i­ly unpre­dictable — Col­orado Riv­er. With its large tur­bines, the engi­neer­ing and instal­la­tion of which O’Neal explains in full, it man­aged to gen­er­ate enough elec­tric­i­ty to repay its con­struc­tion cost of more than $811 mil­lion in today’s dol­lars by 1987, just over 50 years after it opened. And in an achieve­ment almost impos­si­ble to believe today, it opened more than two years ahead of sched­ule. We hear a good deal today about the con­cept of “state capac­i­ty,” and how the U.S. could regain it. At the Hoover Dam, we behold state capac­i­ty quite lit­er­al­ly made con­crete.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Incred­i­ble Sto­ry of the Hoover Dam

The Genius Urban Design of Ams­ter­dam: Canals, Dams & Lean­ing Hous­es

How Medieval Islam­ic Engi­neer­ing Brought Water to the Alham­bra

The Genius Engi­neer­ing of Roman Aque­ducts

The Bril­liant Engi­neer­ing That Made Venice: How a City Was Built on Water

Dis­cov­er Ansel Adams’ 226 Pho­tos of U.S. Nation­al Parks (and Anoth­er Side of the Leg­endary Pho­tog­ra­ph­er)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Fascinating Engineering of the Titanic: How the Great Ocean Liner Was Built

When many of us first learned of the RMS Titan­ic, it was pre­sent­ed first as one of his­to­ry’s great­est ironies: the “unsink­able” ocean lin­er that went down on its maid­en voy­age. Of course, there’s a great deal more to the sto­ry, as any­one who becomes obsessed with the ill-fat­ed ship (James Cameron being just one notable exam­ple) under­stands full well. Even apart from the many human expe­ri­ences sur­round­ing it, some of them told by the wreck­’s sur­vivors and pre­served on film, the mechan­i­cal aspects of the Titan­ic hold out con­sid­er­able fas­ci­na­tion for any­one with an engi­neer’s cast of mind. Put aside, for the moment, the mat­ter of the sink­ing, and con­sid­er just what went into mak­ing it one of the most glo­ri­ous cre­ations of man launched into the ocean to date — or rather, one of the three most glo­ri­ous.

The Titan­ic was one of a trio of sim­i­lar White Star Line ships com­plet­ed in the ear­ly nine­teen-tens. In the video above, Bill Ham­mack, known on YouTube as Engi­neer­guy, tells the sto­ry of not just the Titan­ic, but also the Olympic and the HMHS Bri­tan­nic. An engi­neer­ing pro­fes­sor at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Illi­nois, he found in the cam­pus library issues of the jour­nal The Engi­neer pub­lished between 1909 and 1911 that con­tain detailed pho­tographs of the con­struc­tion of both the Titan­ic and Olympic, sis­ter ships that were built side-by-side.

One ele­ment high­light­ed that we may not much con­sid­er today is the sheer scale of the things: each was held togeth­er by three mil­lion riv­ets, could con­tain 1.5 mil­lion gal­lons of bal­last water, weighed 52,000 tons when ful­ly fit­ted, required 23 tons of lubri­cant to slide from the dock into the water, and burned 650 tons of coal per day on a transat­lantic cross­ing.

Alas, size alone was­n’t enough to pre­vent dis­as­ter. “Less than a year after the launch of these two giant ships, one suf­fered a col­li­sion that ripped a gap­ing hole in its side,” says Ham­mack. “That ship was of course, the Olympic.” Its sud­den encounter with a pass­ing war­ship neces­si­tat­ed patch­ing with wood before it could return home for a full repair, but there­after it remained in ser­vice for near­ly a quar­ter-cen­tu­ry. Its less lucky sib­ling end­ed up at the bot­tom of the ocean after run­ning into trou­ble of its own: a mine and a tor­pe­do spelled the end for the Bri­tan­nic in 1916. As for the Titan­ic, we all know about its fate­ful encounter with the ice­berg, and maybe we’ve even heard dis­cus­sions of how its design­ers could have mit­i­gat­ed the impact: more or taller bulk­heads, a dou­ble hull rather than just a dou­ble bot­tom, greater lifeboat capac­i­ty. As for whether and how those solu­tions would have worked, per­haps Ham­mack could still shoot a fol­low-up explain­ing it all to us.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The First Full 3D Scan of the Titan­ic, Made of More Than 700,000 Images Cap­tur­ing the Wreck’s Every Detail

See the First 8K Footage of the Titan­ic, the High­est-Qual­i­ty Video of the Ship­wreck Yet

The Titan­ic: Rare Footage of the Ship Before Dis­as­ter Strikes (1911–1912)

Titan­ic Sur­vivor Inter­views: What It Was Like to Flee the Sink­ing Lux­u­ry Lin­er

The Sink­ing of the Bri­tan­nic: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the Titan­ic’s For­got­ten Sis­ter Ship

How a 16th-Cen­tu­ry Explorer’s Sail­ing Ship Worked: An Ani­mat­ed Video Takes You on a Com­pre­hen­sive Tour

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

How the Long-Lost Body of Richard III Was Found Under a Parking Lot: Solving a 500-Year-Old Mystery

Shake­speare’s The Tragedy of Richard the Third begins with the epony­mous char­ac­ter utter­ing the famous line “Now is the win­ter of our dis­con­tent.” It ends at the Bat­tle of Bosworth Field, by which point his vil­lain­ous schemes have come to ruin and his deser­tion by Lord Stan­ley seems to have sealed his fate. “A horse, a horse, my king­dom for a horse,” he cries out, coin­ing anoth­er expres­sion used four cen­turies lat­er before being slain by the Earl of Rich­mond, the man who would be Hen­ry VII. Though Shake­speare him­self was writ­ing more than 100 years after the his­tor­i­cal events he dra­ma­tized, he includ­ed lit­tle after the event of Richard’s death, whose most fas­ci­nat­ing mys­tery was in any case only solved in our own time.

You can see the sto­ry of Richard III’s long-unknown where­abouts in the Pri­mal Space video above. Accord­ing to records, says the nar­ra­tor, “he was buried uncer­e­mo­ni­ous­ly beneath the Greyfri­ars Church in Leices­ter, and a mon­u­ment was even­tu­al­ly placed above his grave.” When Hen­ry VIII ordered such hous­es of wor­ship shut down forty years lat­er, Greyfri­ars was among the insti­tu­tions demol­ished.

Every­one even­tu­al­ly came to believe that, amid this destruc­tion, Richard’s body had been exhumed and tossed off the Bow Bridge. Only in the ear­ly two-thou­sands did a search for his corpse com­mence in earnest, spear­head­ed by the Richard III Soci­ety. Hav­ing deter­mined that the Bow Bridge sto­ry had been made up, the soci­ety’s mem­bers then had to pin down the long-con­fused for­mer loca­tion of Greyfri­ars Church.

One of them, Philip­pa Lan­g­ley, got the hunch to start look­ing under a Leices­ter park­ing lot. Bud­getary lim­i­ta­tions forced her team to try dig­ging just three trench­es across spaces like­li­est to cross the church’s foot­print. “Amaz­ing­ly, just six hours into the first day, they came across a skele­ton” with skull dam­age and spinal cur­va­ture. Richard was indeed described as a “hunch­back” in his life­time, but in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry, only DNA evi­dence clos­es the case. Its acqui­si­tion neces­si­tat­ed both find­ing a cou­ple unbro­ken female lines (the only means of trans­mit­ting mito­chon­dr­i­al DNA) from his sis­ter down to liv­ing, testable indi­vid­u­als while car­bon-dat­ing the skele­ton. Sure enough, Richard turned out to have been in eter­nal repose not just under that park­ing lot, but near a sten­ciled let­ter R — the kind of coin­ci­dence from which even the Bard him­self might have shied away.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Con­firmed: The Bones of Richard III (1452–1485) Found Under a UK Park­ing Lot

74 Ways Char­ac­ters Die in Shakespeare’s Plays Shown in a Handy Info­graph­ic: From Snakebites to Lack of Sleep

How Eng­land First Became Eng­land: An Ani­mat­ed His­to­ry

Hear What Ham­let, Richard III & King Lear Sound­ed Like in Shakespeare’s Orig­i­nal Pro­nun­ci­a­tion

A New Analy­sis of Beethoven’s DNA Reveals That Lead Poi­son­ing Could Have Caused His Deaf­ness

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Who Would Be Emperor If the Roman Empire Still Existed Today?

Dur­ing Wim­ble­don a few years ago, a thread about King Felipe VI of Spain went viral. It was post­ed to the social media plat­form for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter by Derek Guy, author of the menswear blog Die, Work­wear! “Very rare to see this lev­el of tai­lor­ing nowa­days, even on the wealthy,” he com­ment­ed on a pho­to of Felipe in the stands on the tour­na­men­t’s last day. Even when not attend­ing major sport­ing events, the king’s col­lars always hug his neck, his lapels are always well-pro­por­tioned, the lines of his coat always flow into his trousers, and his four-in-hand always has just the right asym­me­try. For my mon­ey, such self-pre­sen­ta­tion befits not just a monarch, but indeed an emper­or.

It so hap­pens that Felipe is one of the most plau­si­ble can­di­dates for that job, at least in the hypo­thet­i­cal sce­nario that the Roman Empire nev­er declined and fell. He’s also the only actu­al sit­ting monarch among them, though each of the oth­ers can also make his own cred­i­ble claim to the impe­r­i­al throne.

So who would right­ful­ly rule over a still-extant Roman Empire? Under­stand­ing that his­to­ry buffs enjoy noth­ing more than a spec­u­la­tive but knowl­edge- and judg­ment-inten­sive debate of that kind, Use­fulCharts cre­ator Matt Bak­er (whose online store hap­pens to offer a Roman emper­ors fam­i­ly tree poster) once invit­ed thir­teen his­to­ry YouTu­bers to cast their votes — and, of course, explain their answers.

In addi­tion to Felipe, the ros­ter of poten­tial mod­ern-day Roman emper­ors includes Dün­dar Ali Osman, heir to the Ottoman dynasty, and Andrew Romanov, heir to the Russ­ian throne (a choice for those who accept the one­time descrip­tion of Moscow as the “third Rome”). Alas, both have died since the mak­ing of this video, but the claimants who could draw their legit­i­ma­cy from the lega­cy of the Holy Roman Empire live on: the still rel­a­tive­ly young Jean-Christophe Napoléon, a descen­dant of Bona­parte’s broth­er, and Karl von Hab­s­burg, the undis­put­ed cur­rent head of the epony­mous house. In favor of each can­di­date, one can make a vari­ety of argu­ments polit­i­cal, cul­tur­al, and geo­graph­i­cal. Nor, as some of us would insist, can we rea­son­ably ignore the sar­to­r­i­al.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Every Roman Emper­or: A Video Time­line Mov­ing from Augus­tus to the Byzan­tine Empire’s Last Ruler, Con­stan­tine XI

What Did the Roman Emper­ors Look Like?: See Pho­to­re­al­is­tic Por­traits Cre­at­ed with Machine Learn­ing

Ancient Roman Coins Reveal the Exis­tence of a For­got­ten Roman Emper­or

Five Hard­core Deaths Suf­fered By Roman Emper­ors

All of the Rulers of Europe Over the Past 2,400 Years Pre­sent­ed in a Time­lapse Map (400 B.C. to 2017 A.D.)

The His­to­ry of Europe from 400 BC to the Present, Ani­mat­ed in 12 Min­utes

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

AI Figures Out the Rules of a Mysterious 2,000-Year-Old Board Game from Ancient Rome

Image by Wal­ter Crist

As far as enthu­si­asm for board games goes, no con­ti­nent has yet out­done Europe. Its advan­tage could lie in the high­ly devel­oped cul­ture of low-cost leisure evi­dent in quite a few of its soci­eties; it could also owe to the fact that board games seem to have been played there con­tin­u­ous­ly since antiq­ui­ty. We’ve long had evi­dence of exam­ples like the “Roman mill game,” bet­ter known today as nine men’s mor­ris, which Ovid appears to men­tion in his Ars Ama­to­ria of the very ear­ly first cen­tu­ry. Not that mod­ern knowl­edge of Roman table­top gam­ing is com­plete. In one puz­zling case, the stone board above was unearthed in a for­mer Roman town in the Nether­lands, but how a game was played on it remained a mys­tery — until machine learn­ing came along.

“To exam­ine whether the object may have been used as a game board, we per­formed use-wear analy­sis to iden­ti­fy evi­dence for game­play and we sim­u­lat­ed play using arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence (AI),” write the team of researchers who recent­ly pub­lished a paper on the sub­ject in the jour­nal Antiq­ui­ty. They used a sys­tem called Ludii, engi­neered to ana­lyze board-game rules.

“This soft­ware allows for AI-dri­ven play­out sim­u­la­tion, where two AI agents play a game against one anoth­er, which can gen­er­ate quan­ti­ta­tive data on game­play. In this instance, we explored whether the rules of a game would pro­duce the wear pat­tern seen on the stone.” The idea, in oth­er words, was to let the com­put­er play against itself using dif­fer­ent rules until it came upon a game that would con­tin­ue to abrade away the sur­face of the board in the same fash­ion as it already was.

This process nar­rowed it down to games “in which the goal is to block the oppo­nent from mov­ing, and those in which the goal is to place three pieces in a row.” These have a fair­ly long doc­u­ment­ed his­to­ry, from Scan­di­navi­a’s hare­tavl, to Italy’s gio­co dell’orso to Spain’s liebre persegui­da, to Greece’s kiné­gi tou lagoú. You can down­load what the research sug­gests is the most plau­si­ble rule set for this par­tic­u­lar Roman board game here, board design includ­ed. One play­er takes the side of the “hunter,” with four pieces, and the oth­er the side of the “prey,” with two. The for­mer tries to trap the lat­ter’s pieces, mov­ing only along the board­’s lines; in the next round, the roles reverse. The hunter who does the job in the fewest moves wins. Why not invite friends over to spend an evening play­ing like a Roman? For a thor­ough­ly ancient good time, first recon­struct as best you can the ambi­ence of the ther­mopoli­um at home.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch a Playthrough of the Old­est Board Game in the World, the Sumer­ian Roy­al Game of Ur, Cir­ca 2500 BC

Behold the First Amer­i­can Board Game, Trav­ellers’ Tour Through the Unit­ed States (1822)

Monop­oly: How the Orig­i­nal Game Was Made to Con­demn Monop­o­lies & the Abus­es of Cap­i­tal­ism

Kurt Vonnegut’s Lost Board Game Is Final­ly for Sale

The Fiendish­ly Com­pli­cat­ed Board Game That Takes 1,500 Hours to Play: Dis­cov­er The Cam­paign for North Africa

The Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas Board Game, Inspired by Hunter S. Thompson’s Rol­lick­ing Nov­el

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Inside the Automats Where Coin-Operated Machines Created a Modern, Democratic Dining Experience

“Good evening,” said Alfred Hitch­cock to the tele­vi­sion view­ers of Amer­i­ca on March 25, 1959. “Tonight I’m din­ing at my favorite club. There are many advan­tages here. As you can see, infor­mal­i­ty is the rule. There is also the stim­u­la­tion of intel­lec­tu­al com­pan­ion­ship with­out the deaf­en­ing qui­et that per­vades most clubs. Best of all, I like its pri­va­cy: only four per­sons are allowed at a table, and, of course, no one pays any atten­tion to you.” This was an exam­ple of the dead­pan irony with which the film­mak­er intro­duced each broad­cast of Alfred Hitch­cock Presents, for the “club” of which he spoke was clear­ly an automat. Today, many read­ers under about 50 will nev­er have heard the word, but at the time, it referred to a seem­ing­ly per­ma­nent insti­tu­tion in Amer­i­can life.

Or rather, an insti­tu­tion of urban Amer­i­can life, and above all in two cities, Philadel­phia and New York. There, no one could think of automats with­out think­ing of Horn & Hardart, in its hey­day the largest restau­rant chain in the world. The con­cept, which co-founder Joseph Horn import­ed over from Berlin in the ear­ly nine­teen-tens, was of a restau­rant with no wait­ers: rather, you could choose your dish à la carte from a wall of coin-oper­at­ed com­part­ments, pay­ing the nick­el or two that would allow you to take the food inside.

Sal­is­bury steak, creamed spinach, baked beans, a ham-and-cheese sand­wich, mac­a­roni and cheese, choco­late pud­ding, straw­ber­ry rhubarb pie: what­ev­er it was, the behind-the-scenes staff would replace it just as soon as you put the last one on your tray.

Smack of moder­ni­ty though it once did (and in a way, still does), the term automat is some­what mis­lead­ing. We might describe the expe­ri­ence of vis­it­ing one as din­ing inside a giant vend­ing machine, but the actu­al run­ning of the oper­a­tion was quite labor-inten­sive. Most of the work was per­formed out of the cus­tomer’s sight, as far away as in the large cen­tral com­mis­saries that pre­pared many of the dish­es to be trans­port­ed dai­ly to Horn & Hardart’s 88 loca­tions. This sheer scale of oper­a­tion allowed the chain to offer some of the cheap­est meals com­mer­cial­ly avail­able, with the result that its automats boomed even — indeed, espe­cial­ly — dur­ing the Great Depres­sion. Their eco­nom­ic bar­ri­er was low, and of sex and race, nonex­is­tent; those who remem­ber them describe them becom­ing some of the most demo­c­ra­t­ic insti­tu­tions in post­war Amer­i­ca.

You can hear such mem­o­ries recalled in the recent doc­u­men­tary The Automat by fig­ures like Ruth Bad­er Gins­burg, Col­in Pow­ell, and Mel Brooks, who rhap­sodizes about Horn & Hardart’s cof­fee, dis­pensed for just a nick­el from elab­o­rate dol­phin-head­ed spig­ots. That degree of detail was stan­dard in the inte­ri­ors, whose mar­ble, chrome, and glass look pala­tial by the stan­dards of the fast-food joints that ulti­mate­ly replaced the automat. That glo­ry was one casu­al­ty of post­war sub­ur­ban­iza­tion and hol­low­ing-out of cen­tral cities that result­ed. What with the Amer­i­can urban renais­sance of the past few decades, attempts have been made to revive the automat con­cept, but per­haps, as Brooks puts it, “the logis­tics and the eco­nom­ics of today won’t allow any­thing that sim­ple, naïve, and elo­quent and beau­ti­ful to flour­ish again.” Order­ing a meal brought straight to your door may be more con­ve­nient, but even deliv­ery-app addicts have to admit that it will nev­er have the same romance.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Slot Machine Age: A 1964 British News­reel Angsts Over Whether Auto­mat­ed Machines Will Dis­place Peo­ple

How Edward Hopper’s Paint­ings Inspired the Creepy Sus­pense of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Win­dow

Watch the “Bib­lio-Mat” Book-Vend­ing Machine Dis­pense Lit­er­ary Delight

Behold the Art-o-Mat: Vin­tage Cig­a­rette Vend­ing Machines Get Repur­posed & Dis­pense Works of Art

How Fast Food Began: The His­to­ry of This Thor­ough­ly Amer­i­can (and Now Glob­al) Form of Din­ing

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Roman Statues Weren’t White; They Were Once Painted in Vivid, Bright Colors

The idea of the clas­si­cal period—the time of ancient Greece and Rome—as an ele­gant­ly uni­fied col­lec­tion of supe­ri­or aes­thet­ic and philo­soph­i­cal cul­tur­al traits has its own his­to­ry, one that comes in large part from the era of the Neo­clas­si­cal. The redis­cov­ery of antiq­ui­ty took some time to reach the pitch it would dur­ing the 18th cen­tu­ry, when ref­er­ences to Greek and Latin rhetoric, archi­tec­ture, and sculp­ture were inescapable. But from the Renais­sance onward, the clas­si­cal achieved the sta­tus of cul­tur­al dog­ma.

One tenet of clas­si­cal ide­al­ism is the idea that Roman and Greek stat­u­ary embod­ied an ide­al of pure whiteness—a mis­con­cep­tion mod­ern sculp­tors per­pet­u­at­ed for hun­dreds of years by mak­ing busts and stat­ues in pol­ished white mar­ble. But the truth is that both Greek stat­ues and their Roman counterparts—as you’ll learn in the Vox video above—were orig­i­nal­ly bright­ly paint­ed in riotous col­or.

This includes the 1st cen­tu­ry A.D. Augus­tus of Pri­ma Por­ta, the famous fig­ure of the Emper­or stand­ing tri­umphant­ly with one hand raised. Rather than left as blank white mar­ble, the stat­ue would have had bronzed skin, brown hair, and a fire-engine red toga. “Ancient Greece and Rome were real­ly col­or­ful,” we learn. So how did every­one come to believe oth­er­wise?

It’s part­ly an hon­est mis­take. After the fall of Rome, ancient sculp­tures were buried or left out in the open air for hun­dreds of years. By the time the Renais­sance began in the 1300s, their paint had fad­ed away. As a result, the artists unearthing, and copy­ing ancient art didn’t real­ize how col­or­ful it was sup­posed to be.

But white mar­ble couldn’t have become the norm with­out some will­ful igno­rance. Even though there was a bunch of evi­dence that ancient sculp­ture was paint­ed, artists, art his­to­ri­ans and the gen­er­al pub­lic chose to dis­re­gard it. West­ern cul­ture seemed to col­lec­tive­ly accept that white mar­ble was sim­ply pret­ti­er.

White stat­u­ary sym­bol­ized a clas­si­cal ide­al that “depends high­ly on the great­est pos­si­ble decon­tex­tu­al­iza­tion,” writes James I. Porter, pro­fes­sor of Rhetoric and Clas­sics at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cal­i­for­nia, Berke­ley. “Only so can the val­ues it cher­ish­es be iso­lat­ed: sim­plic­i­ty, tran­quil­i­ty, bal­anced pro­por­tions, restraint, puri­ty of form… all of these are fea­tures that under­score the time­less qual­i­ty of the high­est pos­si­ble expres­sion of art, like a breath held indef­i­nite­ly.” These ideals became insep­a­ra­ble from the devel­op­ment of racial the­o­ry.

Learn­ing to see the past as it was requires us to put aside his­tor­i­cal­ly acquired blind­ers. This can be exceed­ing­ly dif­fi­cult when our ideas about the past come from hun­dreds of years of inher­it­ed tra­di­tion, from every peri­od of art his­to­ry since the time of Michelan­ge­lo. But we must acknowl­edge this tra­di­tion as fab­ri­cat­ed. Influ­en­tial art his­to­ri­an Johann Joachim Winck­el­mann, for exam­ple, extolled the val­ue of clas­si­cal sculp­ture because, in his opin­ion, “the whiter the body is, the more beau­ti­ful it is.”

Winck­el­mann also, Vox notes, “went out of his way to ignore obvi­ous evi­dence of col­ored mar­ble, and there was a lot of it.” He dis­missed fres­coes of col­ored stat­u­ary found in Pom­peii and judged one paint­ed sculp­ture dis­cov­ered there as “too prim­i­tive” to have been made by ancient Romans. “Evi­dence wasn’t just ignored, some of it may have been destroyed” to enforce an ide­al of white­ness. While many stat­ues were denud­ed by the ele­ments over hun­dreds of years, the first archae­ol­o­gists to dis­cov­er the Augus­tus of Pri­ma Por­ta in the 1860s described its col­or scheme in detail.

Cri­tiques of clas­si­cal ide­al­ism don’t orig­i­nate in a polit­i­cal­ly cor­rect present. As Porter shows at length in his arti­cle “What Is ‘Clas­si­cal’ About Clas­si­cal Antiq­ui­ty?,” they date back at least to 19th cen­tu­ry philoso­pher Lud­wig Feuer­bach, who called Winckelmann’s ideas about Roman stat­ues “an emp­ty fig­ment of the imag­i­na­tion.” But these ideas are “for the most part tak­en for grant­ed rather than ques­tioned,” Porter argues, “or else clung to for fear of los­ing a pow­er­ful cachet that, even in the belea­guered present, con­tin­ues to trans­late into cul­tur­al pres­tige, author­i­ty, elit­ist sat­is­fac­tions, and eco­nom­ic pow­er.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2019.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Why Most Ancient Civ­i­liza­tions Had No Word for the Col­or Blue

Why Ancient Romans Paid a For­tune for the Col­or Pur­ple — More Than Even Sil­ver

How Ancient Greek Stat­ues Real­ly Looked: Reseasrch Reveals Their Bold, Bright Col­ors and Pat­terns

The Met Dig­i­tal­ly Restores the Col­ors of an Ancient Egypt­ian Tem­ple, Using Pro­jec­tion Map­ping Tech­nol­o­gy

Watch Art on Ancient Greek Vas­es Come to Life with 21st Cen­tu­ry Ani­ma­tion

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

Seven Wonders of the Ancient World: From the Walls of Babylon to the Sewers of Rome

You may not be able to name all, or even most, of the sev­en won­ders of the ancient world. But you almost cer­tain­ly know that there were sev­en of them. In a way, that aligns well enough with the world­view of the Greeks who first made ref­er­ence to such a list, giv­en their near-rev­er­ence for that num­ber. Sev­en were the strings of the lyre (unless there hap­pened to be eight or nine), sev­en were the gates of Thebes, and sev­en were the “wan­der­ing stars” in the night sky (if you count the sun and moon). The iden­ti­ty of the won­ders was less impor­tant than the length of their list, and indeed, as ancient-his­to­ry YouTu­ber Gar­rett Ryan explains in his Told in Stone video above, addi­tions and changes were pro­posed since the begin­ning.

The clas­sic sev­en-won­ders ros­ter includes the Hang­ing Gar­dens of Baby­lon, the Stat­ue of Zeus at Olympia, the Tem­ple of Artemis at Eph­esus, the Mau­soleum at Hali­car­nas­sus, the Colos­sus of Rhodes, the Light­house of Alexan­dria, and the Great Pyra­mid of Giza, that last being the only one still in exis­tence today.

Ryan’s alter­na­tive list includes the Egypt­ian labyrinth at Hawara, which Herodotus con­sid­ered supe­ri­or even to the Pyra­mids; the Tem­ple of Zeus at Cyz­i­cus, which Pliny the Elder described as lined by gold tubes to let in the sun­light (sure­ly stripped out as soon as the place fell into dis­use); the sew­ers of Rome, a civ­i­liza­tion­al achieve­ment unto them­selves; and the The­ater of Scau­rus, which, though con­struct­ed out of wood for tem­po­rary use, seat­ed an aston­ish­ing 80,000 peo­ple.

Ryan com­pletes his sev­en oth­er won­ders with the Altar of Horns at Delos, held in myth to have been built by Apol­lo him­self; the Walls of Baby­lon, which actu­al­ly appear on the ear­li­est known ver­sion of the list; and, final­ly, the good old Colos­se­um. As over-famil­iar (not to men­tion over-toured) as it may be, the Fla­vian Amphithe­ater, as the Colos­se­um was known in its day, does make for a wel­come pres­ence among the ancient won­ders, being the only oth­er one apart from the Great Pyra­mid that we can still vis­it today. But if you get into the mood to go mar­vel at thau­ma­ta, to bor­row the Greek word, by no means lim­it your­self to selec­tions already curat­ed by oth­ers. The world is full of won­ders, and your own per­son­al sev­en may not be far away.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Watch Ancient Ruins Get Restored to their Glo­ri­ous Orig­i­nal State with Ani­mat­ed GIFs: The Tem­ple of Jupiter, Lux­or Tem­ple & More

A Walk­ing Tour Around the Pyra­mids of Giza: 2 Hours in Hi Def

Ten Lost Roman Won­ders: The World’s Longest Tun­nel, Tallest Dam, Widest-Span­ning Bridge & More

How the Ancient Greeks Built Their Mag­nif­i­cent Tem­ples: The Art of Ancient Engi­neer­ing

Take a Vir­tu­al Tour of Machu Pic­chu, One of the New 7 Won­ders of the World

The Ancient World Comes to Life in an Ani­ma­tion Fea­tur­ing Istanbul’s Islam­ic, Ottoman, Greek & Byzan­tine Art

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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