Everything You Ever Wanted to Know about the Bialetti Moka Express: A Deep Dive Into Italy’s Most Popular Coffee Maker

Which cof­fee mak­er is most deeply embed­ded in Amer­i­can cul­ture? I would nom­i­nate the hum­ble Mr. Cof­fee, a device ref­er­enced on Cheers as well as Sein­feld, in the work of Ray­mond Carv­er as well as that of the Blood­hound Gang (to say noth­ing of the 1970s mass-media phe­nom­e­non that was its com­mer­cials star­ring Joe DiMag­gio). But I would also urge my fel­low Amer­i­cans to ask them­selves when last they actu­al­ly used one, or at least used one to sat­is­fy­ing results. Italy, by con­trast, knows what it is to take a cof­fee mak­er to heart. As one study found, nine out of ten Ital­ian house­holds pos­sess­es, in one form or anoth­er, the same basic mod­el: the Bialet­ti Moka Express.

As Ted Mills wrote here with con­fi­dence last month, “many an Open Cul­ture read­er has a Bialet­ti Moka Express in their kitchen. I know I do, but I must add that I knew lit­tle about its his­to­ry and appar­ent­ly even less about how to prop­er­ly use one.” Enter cof­fee Youtu­ber and The World Atlas of Cof­fee author James Hoff­mann, whose intro­duc­to­ry video proved pop­u­lar enough to launch a mini-series that takes a deep dive into the mechan­ics and vari­a­tions on the near­ly 90-year-old “moka pot.”

In the sec­ond episode, just above, Hoff­man per­forms a series of exper­i­ments vary­ing ele­ments of the sim­ple device — start­ing tem­per­a­ture, grind size, heat pow­er — in order to deter­mine how it makes the best cup of cof­fee.

In episode three, Hoff­man (who clear­ly knows a thing or two about not just cof­fee, but how to name a Youtube video to algo­rith­mic advan­tage) refines “the ulti­mate moka pot tech­nique.” Much depends, of course, on fac­tors like what sort of beans you buy, as well as sub­jec­tive con­sid­er­a­tions like how you want your cof­fee to taste — your pre­ferred “fla­vor pro­file,” as they now say. The long­time moka pot user will inevitably feel his/her way to his/her own idio­syn­crat­ic pro­ce­dure and set of acces­sories, and will more than like­ly also accrue a for­mi­da­ble col­lec­tion of moka pots them­selves. Here Hoff­man lines up ten of them, half of which are just dif­fer­ent sizes of the clas­sic Moka Express, its sil­hou­ette rec­og­niz­able at any scale.

Less famil­iar mod­els take cen­ter stage in the fourth episode, “The Moka Pot Vari­a­tions.” In it Hoff­man puts to the test the Bialet­ti’s dou­ble-cream espres­so-mak­ing Brik­ka; their cap­puc­ci­no-capa­ble Muk­ka; the tiny, dis­con­tin­ued Cuor di Moka, with its cor­re­spond­ing­ly avid fan base; and final­ly some­thing called the Kami­ra, which looks less like a cof­fee mak­er than a piece of recy­cled indus­tri­al art. Even apart from these, a vari­ety of com­pa­nies now make a vari­ety of moka pots, every sin­gle one of which has no doubt at least a few seri­ous cof­fee drinkers swear­ing by it. I myself have a weak­ness for Bialet­ti’s Moka Alpina; whether it makes a supe­ri­or brew I could­n’t say, but the jaun­ti­ness of that Tyrolean feath­er is hard­ly debat­able.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Bialet­ti Moka Express: The His­to­ry of Italy’s Icon­ic Cof­fee Mak­er, and How to Use It the Right Way

Life and Death of an Espres­so Shot in Super Slow Motion

How to Make the World’s Small­est Cup of Cof­fee, from Just One Cof­fee Bean

The Birth of Espres­so: How the Cof­fee Shots The Fuel Our Mod­ern Life Were Invent­ed

An Espres­so Mak­er Made in Le Corbusier’s Bru­tal­ist Archi­tec­tur­al Style: Raw Con­crete on the Out­side, High-End Parts on the Inside

The Hertel­la Cof­fee Machine Mount­ed on a Volk­swa­gen Dash­board (1959): The Most Euro­pean Car Acces­so­ry Ever Made

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

In 1922, a Novelist Predicts What the World Will Look Like in 2022: Wireless Telephones, 8‑Hour Flights to Europe & More

A cen­tu­ry ago, the pop­u­lar Eng­lish nov­el­ist W.L. George sat down and put his mind to envi­sion­ing the world we live in today. That world has not, alas, turned out to be one in which his books are much read, but in his day a great many read­ers were moved by his social cause-dri­ven fic­tion and reportage. One might com­pare him to Upton Sin­clair, his con­tem­po­rary on the oth­er side of the Atlantic. In the Paris-born-and-raised George’s ances­tral home­land, George Orwell described him as an author of what G.K. Chester­ton called “good bad books,” sin­gling out for praise his 1920 nov­el Cal­iban amid the “shod­dy rub­bish” of his wider oeu­vre.

Still even authors of rub­bish — and per­haps espe­cial­ly authors of rub­bish — can sense the shape of things to come. For its edi­tion of May 7, 1922, the New York Her­ald com­mis­sioned George to share that sense with their read­ers. In response he described a world in which “com­mer­cial fly­ing will have become entire­ly com­mon­place,” reduc­ing the sep­a­ra­tion of Amer­i­ca and Europe to eight hours, and whose pas­sen­ger steam­ers and rail­roads will have con­se­quent­ly fall­en into obso­les­cence. “Wire­less teleg­ra­phy and wire­less tele­phones will have crushed the cable sys­tem,” result­ing in gen­er­a­tions who’ll nev­er have seen “a wire out­lined against the sky.”

That goes for the trans­mis­sion of elec­tric­i­ty as well, since George cred­its (a bit hasti­ly, it seems) the pos­si­bil­i­ty of wire­less pow­er sys­tems of the kind researched by Niko­la Tes­la. In 2022, coal will take a dis­tant back­seat to the tides, the sun, and radi­um, and “it may also be that atom­ic ener­gy will be har­nessed.” As for the cin­e­ma, “the fig­ures on the screen will not only move, but they will have their nat­ur­al col­ors and speak with ordi­nary voic­es. Thus, the stage as we know it to-day may entire­ly dis­ap­pear, which does not mean the doom of art, since the movie actress of 2022 will not only need to know how to smile but also how to talk.”

Oth­er women, how­ev­er, have proven just as capa­ble as George had imag­ined: “All posi­tions will be open to them and a great many women will have risen high. The year 2022 will prob­a­bly see a large num­ber of women in Con­gress, a great many on the judi­cial bench, many in civ­il ser­vice posts, and per­haps some in the Pres­i­den­t’s Cab­i­net.” Georges fore­sees the birth-con­trol pill, but also the “pill lunch.” Unlike some reform­ers, he hes­i­tates to declare the abo­li­tion of the fam­i­ly, but he does imag­ine the “major­i­ty of mankind” occu­py­ing mod­u­lar homes in high-rise com­mu­nal dwellings (“I have a vision of walls, fur­ni­ture, and hang­ings made of more or less com­pressed papi­er-mâché”), all gath­ered in cli­mate-con­trolled cities set under glass.

On the whole, in 2022, “the advance­ment of sci­ence will be amaz­ing, but it will be noth­ing like so amaz­ing as is the present day in rela­tion to a hun­dred years ago.” Indeed, he sus­pects that a glimpse of our real­i­ty would­n’t much sur­prise “the lit­tle girl who sells can­dies at Grand Cen­tral Sta­tion.” It could even be dull, what with com­plete set­tle­ment and devel­op­ment leav­ing “no more oppor­tu­ni­ty in Amer­i­ca than there is in Eng­land to-day.” In 1922, George could write that “in fic­tion, Amer­i­ca leads the world by sin­cer­i­ty, faith and fear­less­ness,” and believe that “in 2022 Amer­i­can lit­er­a­ture will be a lit­er­a­ture of cul­ture. The bat­tle will be over and the muz­zle off. There will be no more things one can’t say, and things one can’t think.” What­ev­er the inspi­ra­tions of his prophe­cy, they must not have told him about social media.

You can find a copy of George’s orig­i­nal arti­cle over at the Library of Con­gress.

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via Messy Nessy

Relat­ed Con­tent:

In 1953, a Tele­phone-Com­pa­ny Exec­u­tive Pre­dicts the Rise of Mod­ern Smart­phones and Video Calls

Jules Verne Accu­rate­ly Pre­dicts What the 20th Cen­tu­ry Will Look Like in His Lost Nov­el, Paris in the Twen­ti­eth Cen­tu­ry (1863)

In 1900, Ladies’ Home Jour­nal Pub­lish­es 28 Pre­dic­tions for the Year 2000

Futur­ist from 1901 Describes the World of 2001: Opera by Tele­phone, Free Col­lege & Pneu­mat­ic Tubes Aplen­ty

In 1911, Thomas Edi­son Pre­dicts What the World Will Look Like in 2011: Smart Phones, No Pover­ty, Libraries That Fit in One Book

In 1926, Niko­la Tes­la Pre­dicts the World of 2026

9 Sci­ence-Fic­tion Authors Pre­dict the Future: How Jules Verne, Isaac Asi­mov, William Gib­son, Philip K. Dick & More Imag­ined the World Ahead

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

The Anti-Vaxxer Who Waged War Against Jonas Salk & His Polio Vaccine: When History Keeps Repeating

Almost imme­di­ate­ly after Scot­tish doc­tor Edward Jen­ner learned how to inoc­u­late humans against small­pox in 1796, mass move­ments sprang up in Eng­land and the U.S. to oppose the mea­sure. The rejec­tion of inoc­u­la­tion and vac­ci­na­tion gen­er­al­ly made its stand on “polit­i­cal grounds,” says Yale his­to­ri­an Frank Snow­den. For over two hun­dred years, peo­ple have “wide­ly con­sid­ered [vac­cines to be] anoth­er form of tyran­ny.” In the 19th cen­tu­ry, fears of gov­ern­ment con­trol mutat­ed into pseu­do­sci­en­tif­ic con­spir­a­cy the­o­ries claim­ing the small­pox vac­cine might cause, for exam­ple, the growth of hooves and horns or the birth of human/cow hybrid babies.

The push­back against the small­pox vac­cine, writes Slate’s Nick Kep­pler, occurred dur­ing a time “when argu­ments about bod­i­ly integri­ty and reli­gious objec­tion car­ried as much weight as sci­en­tif­ic evi­dence.” But vac­cine sci­ence pro­gressed nonethe­less, and sci­en­tif­ic insti­tu­tions – very much in league with gov­ern­ment by the mid-20th cen­tu­ry – shared their largesse in the form of med­ical break­throughs and con­sumer con­ve­niences. “The post­war era was a very trust-in-sci­ence-era,” says researcher sci­en­tist Jonathan M. Berman, author of Anti-Vaxxers: How to Chal­lenge a Mis­in­formed Move­ment. “The pub­lic not just accept­ed, but cheered, the head­line-mak­ing work of guys in white lab coats,” Kep­pler remarks.

Not every­one was cheer­ing for Jonas Salk, the March of Dimes, and the polio vac­cine, how­ev­er. While celebri­ties like Elvis Pres­ley legit­imized the vac­cine in the eyes of a pre­vi­ous­ly skep­ti­cal pub­lic, a few fer­vent anti-vaxxers rose to promi­nence, some using the same com­bi­na­tion of fear mon­ger­ing, pseu­do­sci­en­tif­ic spec­u­la­tion, and con­spir­a­to­r­i­al think­ing com­mon to the small­pox era – and com­mon, once again, in the time of COVID-19.

One of these fig­ures, Flori­da busi­ness­man Duon Miller, found­ed a cos­met­ics com­pa­ny, then invest­ed his own mon­ey and that of oth­ers into an orga­ni­za­tion called Polio Pre­ven­tion Inc., a one-man oper­a­tion that pur­port­ed to fight polio with infor­ma­tion about nutri­tion. Miller’s orga­ni­za­tion actu­al­ly served to under­mine the vac­cine with a host of out­ra­geous, log­i­cal­ly fal­la­cious claims about the caus­es of polio and the dan­gers of vac­ci­na­tion. As Kep­pler notes:

Like today’s COVID skep­tics, Miller cher­ry-picked physi­cians who were skep­ti­cal of polio as a virus and mis­rep­re­sent­ed facts. One mail­er was a rapid fire of out-of-con­text infor­ma­tion: Salk “isn’t entire­ly sat­is­fied with the vac­cine.” Some chil­dren still got polio after being vac­ci­nat­ed. And just as the “real” num­ber of COVID-19 deaths pales in com­par­i­son to vac­cine deaths in some dark cor­ners of the inter­net, so it was with polio in Miller’s world: “Polio ‘CRIPPLES’ and Polio ‘DEATHS’ are mere­ly ‘Sta­tis­tics’ to the ‘Char­i­ty-Bro­kers,’ whose record to date of ‘Crip­ples’ and ‘Deaths’ is TRULY DISGRACEFUL.”

Like many con­spir­a­cy the­o­rists today, Miller’s claims con­tained sev­er­al ker­nels of truth, mis­placed in the ser­vice of a bizarre cru­sade. Research now ties excess con­sump­tion of soft drinks, white flour, and refined sug­ar to an increase in can­cers and heart dis­ease. In this, Miller was pre­scient, giv­en that these are the some of the biggest killers in the coun­try. But this had noth­ing to do with the polio virus. Miller’s uncrit­i­cal think­ing, mis­tak­ing large-scale cor­re­la­tions for cau­sa­tion, typ­i­fies con­spir­a­cy the­o­ries. His appeal to the wel­fare of chil­dren also strikes a famil­iar chord, but it’s unsur­pris­ing in this case, giv­en that “polio was a dis­ease of chil­dren,” says René F. Najera, edi­tor of the Col­lege of Physi­cians of Philadelphia’s His­to­ry of Vac­cines project, “so peo­ple were already afraid for their chil­dren.” Com­par­a­tive­ly, COVID-19 “has large­ly left chil­dren alone … so we don’t mobi­lize as much.”

Kep­pler draws many oth­er par­al­lels between Miller’s per­son­al anti-polio vac­cine project and the efforts today to resist the COVID-19 vac­cine, all rep­re­sen­ta­tive of Amer­i­can anti-intel­lec­tu­al­ism and the well-fund­ed will to dis­be­lieve what the sci­ence clear­ly demon­strates. Miller dis­trib­uted mail­ers in schools around Flori­da, accept­ed hun­dreds in dona­tions, and print­ed thou­sands of pam­phlets for dis­tri­b­u­tion. He even offered to get inject­ed with the polio virus to show that it was harm­less. How­ev­er, “fed­er­al charges end­ed Miller’s cru­sade,” when he was charged with “send­ing ‘libel­lous, scur­rilous and defam­a­to­ry’ state­ments through the mail” in 1954, the year Salk read­ied nation­wide tri­als of the vac­cine. Five years lat­er, “U.S. polio cas­es were about 14 per­cent of what they were in 1952, thanks to vac­ci­na­tion,” not, as Miller would have the pub­lic believe, a change in diet. “Give us prop­er diets,” he con­tin­ued to write to news­pa­pers, “and we’ll solve the phys­i­cal imper­fec­tions of Amer­i­cans young and old.” He might have been on to a good argu­ment about nutri­tion just by chance, but the pub­lic had no rea­son to lis­ten to his opin­ions about polio sim­ply because he could afford to cir­cu­late them.

via Steve Sil­ber­man

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Elvis Pres­ley Gets the Polio Vac­cine on The Ed Sul­li­van Show, Per­suad­ing Mil­lions to Get Vac­ci­nat­ed (1956)

How the World’s First Anti-Vax Move­ment Start­ed with the First Vac­cine for Small­pox in 1796, and Spread Fears of Peo­ple Get­ting Turned into Half-Cow Babies

How Do Vac­cines (Includ­ing the COVID-19 Vac­cines) Work?: Watch Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tions

Dying in the Name of Vac­cine Free­dom

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

17th-Century Buddhist Texts for the Illiterate: How “Buddhist Emoji” Made the Sūtra Legible for Those Who Couldn’t Read

Even with 21st-cen­tu­ry teach­ing aids, the writ­ten Japan­ese lan­guage isn’t the sort of thing one picks up in a few weeks’ study. A few hun­dred years ago it would’ve been much more dif­fi­cult still, espe­cial­ly for those engaged in learn­ing the sūtras or scrip­tures of Bud­dhism. “The stakes of cor­rect recita­tion were high in the pre- and ear­ly mod­ern era,” writes The Pub­lic Domain Review’s Hunter Dukes, “with strict rules for pro­nun­ci­a­tion exist­ing since the 1100s, and sūtra recita­tion (dokyō) becom­ing an art form in the fol­low­ing cen­tu­ry.” Import­ed from India and rewrit­ten in clas­si­cal Chi­nese with few clues as to how its words should actu­al­ly be spo­ken, the Bud­dhist canon of east Asia set a mighty chal­lenge even before the per­fect­ly lit­er­ate.

As for the illit­er­ate — of whom, in com­plete con­trast to mod­ern-day Japan, there were many — what chance did they stand? Sal­va­tion, or at any rate a chance at sal­va­tion, arrived in the 17th cen­tu­ry in the form of texts writ­ten just for them. “Japan­ese print­ers began cre­at­ing a type of book for the illit­er­ate, allow­ing them to recite sūtras  and oth­er devo­tion­al prayers, with­out knowl­edge of any writ­ten lan­guage,” writes Dukes. “The texts work by a rebus prin­ci­ple (known as han­ji­mono), where each drawn image, when named aloud, sounds out a Chi­nese syl­la­ble.” Geared toward an agri­cul­tur­al “read­er­ship,” this sys­tem drew its imagery from what they knew: farm­ing tools, domes­tic ani­mals, and even fig­ures of myth.

The sec­tions here come from a 20th-cen­tu­ry exam­ple of this type of pub­li­ca­tion, var­i­ous­ly Meku­ra-kyō or Mon­mō-kyō, held by the British Library. It con­tains a ren­di­tion of the text of the Heart Sūtra, the most wide­ly known piece of scrip­ture in the canon of Mahāyā­na Bud­dhism, and as the Kyoto Nation­al Musem’s Eikei Akao puts it, “prob­a­bly the best-known, most well-loved sutra in Japan.” (You may also remem­ber the 37-minute ver­sion per­formed by beat­box­ing Bud­dhist monk Yoget­su Akasa­ka, which we pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture.) Not long ago, the Unit­ed States Library of Con­gress post­ed this Heart Sūtra for the illit­er­ate to its Face­book page. The occa­sion? World Emo­ji Day.

“Because these pic­tures rep­re­sent sounds, rather than objects or ideas, they don’t real­ly act as pic­tograms the way emo­ji do,” admits the writer of the Library of Con­gress’ post. “But in their icon-like appear­ance, suc­cinct and func­tion­al, they do bear a resem­blance to our use of emo­ji today.” It was then reblogged on Lan­guage Log, one of whose com­menters offered some expla­na­tion of the sys­tem as seen in the pic­tures: “The San­skrit phrase ‘Pra­jñāpāramitā’ is ren­dered ‘Han­nya­harami­ta’ in Japan­ese. ‘Han­nya’ here is writ­ten with a draw­ing of the han­nya demon mask from Noh. ‘Hara­mi’ appears to be a pic­ture of a body (mi) in an abdomen (hara), and then ‘ta’ is a pic­ture of a rice­field (tan­bo, the “ta” of many Japan­ese names, like Tana­ka and Toy­ota).” Hands have been wring­ing about the poten­tial of inter­net com­mu­ni­ca­tion to deliv­er us into a “post-lit­er­ate” soci­ety; per­haps these curi­ous chap­ters in the his­to­ry of the Japan­ese lan­guage show us where to go from there.

via The Pub­lic Domain Review

Relat­ed con­trast:

Down­load 280 Pic­tographs That Put Japan­ese Cul­ture Into a New Visu­al Lan­guage: They’re Free for the Pub­lic to Use

Breath­tak­ing­ly Detailed Tibetan Book Print­ed 40 Years Before the Guten­berg Bible

The World’s Largest Col­lec­tion of Tibetan Bud­dhist Lit­er­a­ture Now Online

The Old­est Book Print­ed with Mov­able Type is Not The Guten­berg Bible: Jikji, a Col­lec­tion of Kore­an Bud­dhist Teach­ings, Pre­dat­ed It By 78 Years and It’s Now Dig­i­tized Online

One of the Old­est Bud­dhist Man­u­scripts Has Been Dig­i­tized & Put Online: Explore the Gand­hara Scroll

A Beat­box­ing Bud­dhist Monk Cre­ates Music for Med­i­ta­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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 Brief Animated History of Martin Luther’s 95 Theses & the Reformation–Which Changed Europe and Later the World

What­ev­er our reli­gious back­ground, we all soon­er or lat­er have occa­sion to speak of nail­ing the­ses to a door. Most of us use the phrase as a metaphor, but sel­dom entire­ly with­out aware­ness of the his­tor­i­cal events that inspired it. On Octo­ber 31, 1517, a Ger­man priest and the­olo­gian named Mar­tin Luther nailed to the door of Wit­ten­berg’s All Saints’ Church his own the­ses, 95 of them, which col­lec­tive­ly made an argu­ment against the Roman Catholic Church’s prac­tice of sell­ing indul­gences, or par­dons for sins. Luther could not accept that the poor should “spend all their mon­ey buy­ing their way out of pun­ish­ment so they can go to heav­en,” nor that it should be “eas­i­er for the rich to avoid a long time in pur­ga­to­ry.”

In oth­er words, Luther believed that the Church in his time had become “way too much about mon­ey and too lit­tle about God,” accord­ing to the nar­ra­tion of the short film above. Cre­at­ed by Tum­ble­head Stu­dios and show­cased by Nation­al Geo­graph­ic for the 500th anniver­sary of the orig­i­nal the­sis-nail­ing, its five play­ful­ly ani­mat­ed min­utes tell the sto­ry of the Ref­or­ma­tion, which saw Protes­tantism split off from Catholi­cism as a result of Luther’s agi­ta­tion. It also man­ages to include such events as Luther’s own trans­la­tion of the New Tes­ta­ment, pre­vi­ous­ly avail­able only in Greek and Latin, into his native Ger­man, the pub­li­ca­tion of which cre­at­ed the basis of the mod­ern Ger­man lan­guage as spo­ken and writ­ten today.

Luther’s trans­la­tion gave ordi­nary peo­ple “the oppor­tu­ni­ty to read the Bible in their own lan­guage,” free from the inter­pre­ta­tions of the priests and the Church. It also gave them, per­haps less inten­tion­al­ly, the abil­i­ty to “use the words of the Bible as an argu­ment for all sorts of things.” Luther’s thoughts were soon mar­shaled “in the pow­er strug­gles of princes, in revolts, and in the strug­gle between kings, princes, and the Pope about who actu­al­ly decides what.” Squab­bles, bat­tles, and full-scale wars ensued. The con­se­quent insti­tu­tion­al schisms changed the world in ways vis­i­ble half a mil­len­ni­um lat­er — but they first changed Europe, where traces of that trans­for­ma­tion still reveal them­selves most strik­ing­ly. Few trav­el­ers can be trust­ed to find and explain those traces more ably than pub­lic-tele­vi­sion host Rick Steves.

In Luther and the Ref­or­ma­tion, his 2017 spe­cial above, Steves vis­its all the impor­tant sites involved in the cen­tral fig­ure’s life jour­ney, a rep­re­sen­ta­tion in micro­cosm of Europe’s grand shift from medieval­ism into moder­ni­ty.  In more than 40 years of pro­fes­sion­al trav­el, Steves has paid count­less vis­its to the mon­u­ments of Catholic Europe. Appre­ci­at­ing them, he admit­ted in a recent New York Times Mag­a­zine pro­file, required him to “park my Protes­tant sword at the door.” His sto­ry-of-the-Ref­or­ma­tion tour, how­ev­er, lets him draw on his own Luther­an tra­di­tion with his char­ac­ter­is­tic enthu­si­asm. That enthu­si­asm, in part, that has made him a such a suc­cess­ful trav­el entre­pre­neur, though he pre­sum­ably knows when to stop amass­ing wealth: after all, it’s eas­i­er for a camel to go through the eye of a nee­dle than for a rich man to enter the king­dom of God. Or so the New Tes­ta­ment has it.

Relat­ed con­tent:

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the World’s Five Major Reli­gions: Hin­duism, Judaism, Bud­dhism, Chris­tian­i­ty & Islam

60-Sec­ond Adven­tures in Reli­gion: Watch New Ani­ma­tions by The Open Uni­ver­si­ty

Ani­mat­ed Map Shows How the Five Major Reli­gions Spread Across the World (3000 BC – 2000 AD)

The Reli­gious Affil­i­a­tion of Com­ic Book Heroes

Chris­tian­i­ty Through Its Scrip­tures: A Free Course from Har­vard Uni­ver­si­ty

Rick Steves’ Europe: Binge Watch 11 Sea­sons of America’s Favorite Trav­el­er Free Online

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

The Marcel Duchamp Research Portal Opens, Making Available 18,000 Documents and 50,000 Images Related to the Revolutionary Artist

Mar­cel Duchamp made films, com­posed music, paint­ed Nude Descend­ing a Stair­case, No. 2, designed an art deco chess set, and of course — the first thing most of us learn about him, as well as the last thing many of us learn about him — he put a uri­nal in an art gal­ley. But as you might expect of an artist who spent the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry at the heart of the avant-garde, there’s more to him than that. This notion is backed up by the more than 18,000 doc­u­ments and 50,000 images made avail­able at the Duchamp Research Por­tal, a new­ly opened archive ded­i­cat­ed to the life and work of the rev­o­lu­tion­ary con­cep­tu­al artist.

The fruit of a sev­en-year col­lab­o­ra­tion between the Philadel­phia Muse­um of Art, the Asso­ci­a­tion Mar­cel Duchamp, and the Cen­tre Pom­pi­dou, this for­mi­da­ble dig­i­tal col­lec­tion includes many arti­facts relat­ed to the artist’s best-known work: the “large glass” of The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bach­e­lors, Even; the mus­ta­chioed Mona Lisa; the shock­ing attempts to com­mit phys­i­cal motion to can­vas; and that uri­nal, Foun­tain.

But its “most inter­est­ing items,” writes The Art News­pa­per’s Daniel Cas­sady, “are often the most inti­mate and involve oth­er major play­ers in the evo­lu­tion of 20th-cen­tu­ry art. A 1950 let­ter — with enig­mat­ic mar­gin­a­lia — from Bre­ton. A 1933 post­card to Con­stan­tin Brân­cuși. Many can­did pho­tographs by Duchamp’s friend and fel­low giant of the era, Man Ray.”

These names will be famil­iar to read­ers of Open Cul­ture, where we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured Brân­cuși on film and por­traits of 1920s cul­tur­al icons by Man Ray — who, as we can see from the above snap­shot of Duchamp at his Span­ish home, did­n’t always work so for­mal­ly. But then, no artist can ful­ly be under­stood through what makes it into the art-his­to­ry text­books alone. Browse the Duchamp Research Por­tal (or click “show me more” to change up the images on its front page) and you’ll see pieces of an artis­tic life ful­ly lived: the floor plan of his West 67th Street stu­dio; a 1940 telegram to Amer­i­can patron Wal­ter Con­rad Arens­berg (“HOLDING SHIPMENT OF MASK AWAITING CONFIRMATION OF INSURANCE AND ADDRESS”); a 1954 French news­pa­per pro­file; and a series of images jux­ta­pos­ing Duchamp with an unclothed Eve Bab­itz, the late Los Ange­les “it-girl” — not just the famous one of them play­ing chess.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Mar­cel Duchamp Read “The Cre­ative Act,” A Short Lec­ture on What Makes Great Art, Great

Mar­cel Duchamp, Chess Enthu­si­ast, Cre­at­ed an Art Deco Chess Set That’s Now Avail­able via 3D Print­er

Anémic Ciné­ma: Mar­cel Duchamp’s Whirling Avant-Garde Film (1926)

Hear the Rad­i­cal Musi­cal Com­po­si­tions of Mar­cel Duchamp (1912–1915)

What Made Mar­cel Duchamp’s Famous Uri­nal Art — and an Inven­tive Prank

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

Great Art Cities: Visit the Fascinating, Lesser-Known Museums of London & Paris

Gal­lerists James Payne and Joanne Shurvell under­stand that insti­tu­tion­al big goril­las like the Lou­vrethe Musee d’Or­sayTate Britain, and London’s Nation­al Gallery require no intro­duc­tion. Their new art and trav­el series, Great Art Cities Explained, con­cen­trates instead on the won­der­ful, small­er muse­ums the big­gies often over­shad­ow.

First time vis­i­tors to Lon­don and Paris may be left scram­bling to rearrange their itin­er­aries.

The first two episodes have us per­suad­ed that Sir John Soane’s Muse­umKen­wood Housethe Wal­lace Col­lec­tion, Le Musée Nation­al Eugène DelacroixLe Musée de Mont­martre à Paris, and Ate­lier Bran­cusi are the true “don’t miss” attrac­tions if time is tight.

Cred­it Payne, whose flair for dishy, far rang­ing, high­ly acces­si­ble nar­ra­tion made his oth­er web series, Great Art Explained in Fif­teen Min­utes, an instant hit.

The three British insti­tu­tions fea­tured above were once grand pri­vate homes, whose own­ers decid­ed to donate them and the mag­nif­i­cent art col­lec­tions they con­tained to the pub­lic good.

What­ev­er moti­vat­ed these wealthy men’s gen­eros­i­ty — van­i­ty, the quest for immor­tal­i­ty, or, in one case, the desire to cut off a churl­ish and moral­ly lax son whom Payne com­pares to the cen­tral fig­ure in William Hogarth’s A Rake’s Progress, a Sir John Soane’s Muse­um favorite — Payne holds them in high­er regard than today’s invest­ment-obsessed art col­lec­tors:

The world needs more men like (William) Mur­ray(Sir John) Soane, and (Sir Richard) Wal­lace, men who saw that art can tran­scend social class. They under­stood that art should enrich the soul, not the bank bal­ance.

His peeks into their cir­cum­stances are every bit as fas­ci­nat­ing as the tid­bits he drops about the artists whose work he includes.

Rather than giv­ing a sweep­ing overview of each col­lec­tion, he focus­es on a few key works, shar­ing his cura­to­r­i­al per­spec­tive on their his­to­ry, acqui­si­tion, sub­ject mat­ter, cre­ation, and recep­tion:

Rembrandt’s Self Por­trait with Two Cir­cles (1669)

Vermeer’s The Gui­tar Play­er (1672)

Hogarth’s A Rake’s Progress (1732)

Canalet­to’s Venice: the Baci­no di San Mar­co from San Gior­gio Mag­giore and Venice: the Baci­no di San Mar­co from the Canale del­la Giudec­ca (c. 1735 — 1744)

Fragonard’s The Swing (1767)

Frans Hal’s Laugh­ing Cav­a­lier (1624)

Payne’s rol­lick­ing approach means each episode is crammed with plen­ty of art­work resid­ing out­side of the fea­tured muse­ums, too, as he com­pares, con­trasts, and con­tex­tu­al­izes.

One of his most inter­est­ing tales in the Lon­don episode con­cerns an 18th-cen­tu­ry por­trait of William Murray’s great-nieces, Dido Belle and Eliz­a­beth Mur­ray, raised by their abo­li­tion­ist great-uncle at Ken­wood House:

Dido Belle was the ille­git­i­mate daugh­ter of a Black slave and William Murray’s nephew and was raised by Mur­ray as part of the aris­toc­ra­cy. By all accounts, Dido and her cousin were raised as equals and this por­trait of the two was seen as an image of sis­ter­hood, reflect­ing their equal sta­tus. But look­ing at it with mod­ern eyes, we can see it more in the vein of tra­di­tion­al ser­vant and mas­ter por­traits of the time. Belle’s exot­ic cloth­ing is designed to dif­fer­en­ti­ate her from her cousin and the paint­ing reflects the con­ser­v­a­tive views of the time.

Artist David Mar­tin places the cousins on a bench out­side the Hamp­stead Heath man­sion, with St. Paul’s Cathe­dral in the back­ground. For years, it was the only known por­trait of Belle.

It hangs, not in Ken­wood House, but in Scone Palace’s Ambas­sador’s Room.

Mean­while, one of Ken­wood House­’s lat­est acqui­si­tions is a 2021 por­trait of Belle by young Jamaican artist Mikéla Hen­ry-Lowe, on dis­play in the library.

Next up on Great Art Cities Explained: New York. Look for it on this playlist on Great Art Explained’s YouTube chan­nel.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Great Art Explained: Watch 15 Minute Intro­duc­tions to Great Works by Warhol, Rothko, Kahlo, Picas­so & More

What Makes Basquiat’s Unti­tled Great Art: One Paint­ing Says Every­thing Basquiat Want­ed to Say About Amer­i­ca, Art & Being Black in Both Worlds

Mark Rothko’s Sea­gram Murals: What Makes Them Great Art

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine and author, most recent­ly, of Cre­ative, Not Famous: The Small Pota­to Man­i­festo.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Watch the Renaissance Painting, The Battle of San Romano, Get Brought Beautifully to Life in a Hand-Painted Animation

Before the advent of the motion pic­ture, human­i­ty had the the­ater — but we also had paint­ings. Though phys­i­cal­ly still by def­i­n­i­tion, paint on can­vas could, in the hands of a suf­fi­cient­ly imag­i­na­tive mas­ter, seem actu­al­ly to move. Arguably this could even be pulled off with ochre and char­coal on the wall of a cave, if you cred­it the the­o­ry that pale­olith­ic paint­ings con­sti­tute the ear­li­est form of cin­e­ma. More famous­ly, and much more recent­ly, Rem­brandt imbued his mas­ter­piece The Night Watch with the illu­sion of move­ment. But over in Italy anoth­er painter, also work­ing on a large scale, pulled it off dif­fer­ent­ly two cen­turies ear­li­er. The artist was Pao­lo Uccel­lo, and the paint­ing is The Bat­tle of San Romano.

“The set of three paint­ings depicts the har­row­ing details of an epic con­fronta­tion between Flo­ren­tine and Sienese armies in 1432,” writes Meghan Oret­sky at Vimeo, which select­ed Swiss film­mak­er Georges Schwiz­ge­bel’s short ani­mat­ed adap­ta­tion of the trip­tych as a Staff Pick Pre­miere. Com­plet­ed in 2017, the film’s begin­nings go back to 1962, when Schwiz­gebel was a gallery-tour­ing art stu­dent in Italy.

“Even though I wasn’t nor­mal­ly moved by old paint­ings, this one made a strong impres­sion on me and still does today,” he tells Vimeo. “I was also inspired by the use of cycles, or loops, which suit­ed a mov­ing ver­sion of this image per­fect­ly.” Schwiz­gebel exe­cut­ed the ani­ma­tion itself over the course of six months, fore­go­ing com­put­er tech­nol­o­gy and paint­ing each frame with acrylic on glass.

Scored by com­pos­er Judith Gru­ber-Stitzer, Schwiz­ge­bel’s “The Bat­tle of San Romano” con­sti­tutes a kind of shape-shift­ing tour of the paint­ing that first cap­ti­vat­ed him half a cen­tu­ry ago. But what he would have seen at the Uffizi Gallery is only one third of Uccel­lo’s com­po­si­tion, albeit the third that art his­to­ri­ans con­sid­er cen­tral. The oth­er two reside at the Lou­vre and the Nation­al Gallery, and you can see the lat­ter’s piece dis­cussed by Direc­tor of Col­lec­tions and Research Car­o­line Camp­bell in the video above. Schwiz­gebel is hard­ly the first to react bold­ly to The Bat­tle of San Romano; in the 15th cen­tu­ry, Loren­zo de’ Medici was suf­fi­cient­ly moved to buy one part, then have the oth­er two stolen and brought to his palace. If that’s the kind of act it has the pow­er to inspire, per­haps it’s for the best that the trip­ty­ch’s union did­n’t last.

via Aeon

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Edvard Munch’s Famous Paint­ing “The Scream” Ani­mat­ed to Pink Floyd’s Pri­mal Music

13 Van Gogh’s Paint­ings Painstak­ing­ly Brought to Life with 3D Ani­ma­tion & Visu­al Map­ping

William Blake’s Paint­ings Come to Life in Two Ani­ma­tions

Late Rem­brandts Come to Life: Watch Ani­ma­tions of Paint­ings Now on Dis­play at the Rijksmu­se­um

10 Paint­ings by Edward Hop­per, the Most Cin­e­mat­ic Amer­i­can Painter of All, Turned into Ani­mat­ed GIFs

Dripped: An Ani­mat­ed Trib­ute to Jack­son Pollock’s Sig­na­ture Paint­ing Tech­nique

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

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