How Levi’s 501 Jeans Became Iconic: A Short Documentary Featuring John Baldessari, Henry Rollins, Lee Ranaldo & More

In his mem­oir Liv­ing Care­less­ly in Tokyo and Else­where, the Amer­i­can Japa­nol­o­gist John Nathan remem­bers evenings in the 1960s spent with Yukio Mishi­ma, whose work he trans­lat­ed into Eng­lish. “I lis­tened rapt­ly as he recit­ed pas­sages from The Tale of the Heike that revealed the fierce­ness and del­i­ca­cy of Japan’s war­rior-poets, or showed me the fine cal­i­bra­tion of the Chi­nese spec­trum,” Nathan writes. “One night he stood up abrupt­ly from behind his desk, asked me to wait a minute, and left the room. When he came back he had changed into a pair of blue jeans and a thick black leather belt. He explained that he had been sand­pa­per­ing the jeans to make them iden­ti­cal to the pair Mar­lon Bran­do had worn in The Wild One.”

Even a fig­ure like Mishi­ma, who with­in a few years would die in an ultra­na­tion­al­is­tic rit­u­al sui­cide after a hope­less attempt­ed coup, felt the allure of Amer­i­can blue jeans. Though Nathan does­n’t note whether Mishi­ma’s pair were gen­uine Lev­i’s 501s, the exact­ing stan­dards to which Mishi­ma held him­self in all respects would seem to demand that mea­sure of authen­tic­i­ty.

“Authen­tic­i­ty,” of course, is a qual­i­ty from which Levi Strauss & Co. have drawn a great deal of val­ue for their brand, their sig­na­ture riv­et­ed den­im prod­uct going back as it does near­ly a cen­tu­ry and a half, to a time when rugged pants were in great demand from the min­ers of Cal­i­for­ni­a’s gold rush. But it was in the eco­nom­i­cal­ly flush and new­ly media-sat­u­rat­ed decades after the Sec­ond World War that jeans took their hold on the Amer­i­can imag­i­na­tion, and soon on the world’s.

The pants, the myth, and the leg­end star in The 501 Jean: Sto­ries of an Orig­i­nal, a three-part series of short doc­u­men­taries pro­duced by Lev­i’s them­selves and nar­rat­ed by Amer­i­can folk singer Ram­blin’ Jack Elliott. Its gallery of 501-wear­ers includes such job titles as Musi­cian, Pho­tog­ra­ph­er, Gar­men­tol­o­gist, Bik­er, Cre­ative Direc­tor, Music/Style Con­sul­tant, and Urban Cow­boy. Con­cep­tu­al artist John Baldessari dis­cuss­es the child­hood love of cow­boy shows that lodged jeans per­ma­nent­ly into his world­view. Album design­er Gary Bur­den brings out his own work, a copy of Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush, to demon­strate the impact of jeans on pop­u­lar music. That both Bur­den and Baldessari have passed away since these videos’ pro­duc­tion under­scores the cur­rent fast depar­ture of the gen­er­a­tions who took jeans from the realm of the util­i­tar­i­an into that of the icon­ic — some of whose mem­bers have doubt­less cho­sen to be buried in their 501s.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dress Like an Intel­lec­tu­al Icon with Japan­ese Coats Inspired by the Wardrobes of Camus, Sartre, Duchamp, Le Cor­busier & Oth­ers

What Hap­pens to the Clothes We Throw Away?: Watch Unrav­el, a Short Doc­u­men­tary on the Jour­ney Our Waste Takes

Google Cre­ates a Dig­i­tal Archive of World Fash­ion: Fea­tures 30,000 Images, Cov­er­ing 3,000 Years of Fash­ion His­to­ry

A Brief His­to­ry of John Baldessari (RIP) Nar­rat­ed by Tom Waits: A Trib­ute to the Late “God­fa­ther of Con­cep­tu­al Art”

Hen­ry Rollins Tells Young Peo­ple to Avoid Resent­ment and to Pur­sue Suc­cess with a “Monas­tic Obses­sion”

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

A 3,000-Year-Old Painter’s Palette from Ancient Egypt, with Traces of the Original Colors Still In It

It’s a good bet your first box of crayons or water­col­ors was a sim­ple affair of six or so col­ors… just like the palette belong­ing to Amen­emopet, vizier to Pharaoh Amen­hotep III (c.1391 — c.1354 BC), a plea­sure-lov­ing patron of the arts whose rule coin­cid­ed with a peri­od of great pros­per­i­ty.

Amenemopet’s well-used artist’s palette, above, now resides in the Egypt­ian wing of New York City’s Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art.

Over 3000 years old and carved from a sin­gle piece of ivory, the palette is marked “beloved of Re,” a roy­al ref­er­ence to the sun god dear to both Amen­hotep III and Akhen­aton, his son and suc­ces­sor, whose wor­ship of Re resem­bled monothe­ism.

As cura­tor Catharine H. Roehrig notes in the Met­ro­pol­i­tan’s pub­li­ca­tion, Life along the Nile: Three Egyp­tians of Ancient Thebes, the palette “con­tains the six basic col­ors of the Egypt­ian palette, plus two extras: red­dish brown, a mix­ture of red ocher and car­bon; and orange, a mix­ture of orpi­ment (yel­low) and red ocher. The painter could also vary his col­ors by apply­ing a thick­er or thin­ner lay­er of paint or by adding white or black to achieve a lighter or dark­er shade.”

(Care­ful when mix­ing that orpi­ment into your red ocher, kids. It’s a form of arsenic.)

Oth­er min­er­als that would have been ground and com­bined with a nat­ur­al bind­ing agent include gyp­sum, car­bon, iron oxides, blue and green azu­rite and mala­chite.

The col­ors them­selves would have had strong sym­bol­ism for Amen­hotep and his peo­ple, and the artist would have made very delib­er­atereg­u­lat­ed, evenchoic­es as to which pig­ment to load onto his palm fiber brush when dec­o­rat­ing tombs, tem­ples, pub­lic build­ings, and pot­tery.

As Jen­ny Hill writes in Ancient Egypt Onlineiwn—col­orcan also be trans­lat­ed as “dis­po­si­tion,” “char­ac­ter,” “com­plex­ion” or “nature.” She delves into the specifics of each of the six basic col­ors:

Wadj (green) also means “to flour­ish” or “to be healthy.” The hiero­glyph rep­re­sent­ed the papyrus plant as well as the green stone mala­chite (wadj). The col­or green rep­re­sent­ed veg­e­ta­tion, new life and fer­til­i­ty. In an inter­est­ing par­al­lel with mod­ern ter­mi­nol­o­gy, actions which pre­served the fer­til­i­ty of the land or pro­mot­ed life were described as “green.”

Dshr (red) was a pow­er­ful col­or because of its asso­ci­a­tion with blood, in par­tic­u­lar the pro­tec­tive pow­er of the blood of Isis…red could also rep­re­sent anger, chaos and fire and was close­ly asso­ci­at­ed with Set, the unpre­dictable god of storms. Set had red hair, and peo­ple with red hair were thought to be con­nect­ed to him. As a result, the Egyp­tians described a per­son in a fit of rage as hav­ing a “red heart” or as being “red upon” the thing that made them angry. A per­son was described as hav­ing “red eyes” if they were angry or vio­lent. “To red­den” was to die and “mak­ing red” was a euphemism for killing.

Irtyu (blue) was the col­or of the heav­ens and hence rep­re­sent­ed the uni­verse. Many tem­ples, sar­copha­gi and bur­ial vaults have a deep blue roof speck­led with tiny yel­low stars. Blue is also the col­or of the Nile and the primeval waters of chaos (known as Nun).

Khenet (yel­low) rep­re­sent­ed that which was eter­nal and inde­struc­tible, and was close­ly asso­ci­at­ed with gold (nebu or nebw) and the sun. Gold was thought to be the sub­stance which formed the skin of the gods.

Hdj (white) rep­re­sent­ed puri­ty and omnipo­tence. Many sacred ani­mals (hip­po, oxen and cows) were white. White cloth­ing was worn dur­ing reli­gious rit­u­als and to “wear white san­dals” was to be a priest…White was also seen as the oppo­site of red, because of the latter’s asso­ci­a­tion with rage and chaos, and so the two were often paired to rep­re­sent com­plete­ness.

Kem (black) rep­re­sent­ed death and the after­life to the ancient Egyp­tians. Osiris was giv­en the epi­thet “the black one” because he was the king of the nether­world, and both he and Anu­bis (the god of embalm­ing) were por­trayed with black faces. The Egyp­tians also asso­ci­at­ed black with fer­til­i­ty and res­ur­rec­tion because much of their agri­cul­ture was depen­dent on the rich dark silt deposit­ed on the riv­er banks by the Nile dur­ing the inun­da­tion. When used to rep­re­sent res­ur­rec­tion, black and green were inter­change­able.

via My Mod­ern Met

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Won­ders of Ancient Egypt: A Free Online Course from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Penn­syl­va­nia

Harvard’s Dig­i­tal Giza Project Lets You Access the Largest Online Archive on the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids (Includ­ing a 3D Giza Tour)

Pyra­mids of Giza: Ancient Egypt­ian Art and Archaeology–a Free Online Course from Har­vard

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

Take a 3D Tour Through Ancient Giza, Includ­ing the Great Pyra­mids, the Sphinx & More

What Ancient Egypt­ian Sound­ed Like & How We Know It

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. She most recent­ly appeared as a French Cana­di­an bear who trav­els to New York City in search of food and mean­ing in Greg Kotis’ short film, L’Ourse.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

How the Bicycle Accelerated the Women’s Rights Movement (Circa 1890)

The ear­ly his­to­ry of the bicy­cle did not promise great things—or any­thing, really—for women at the dawn of the 19th cen­tu­ry. A two-wheeled bicy­cle-like inven­tion, for exam­ple, built in 1820, “was more like an agri­cul­tur­al imple­ment in con­struc­tion than a bicy­cle,” one bicy­cle his­to­ry notes. Made of wood, the “hob­by hors­es” and veloci­pedes of cycling’s first decades rolled on iron wheels. Their near-total lack of sus­pen­sion led to the epi­thet “bone­shak­er.” Some had steer­ing mech­a­nisms, some did not. Brak­ing was gen­er­al­ly accom­plished with the feet, or a crowd of pedes­tri­ans, a tree, or horse-drawn cart.

Lad­dish clubs formed and raced around Lon­don, Paris, and New York. No girls allowed. The ear­li­est bicy­cles for women were rid­den side-sad­dle…. But despite all this, it is entire­ly fair to say that few tech­nolo­gies in his­to­ry, ancient or mod­ern, have done more to free women from domes­tic toilage and bring them careen­ing into the pub­lic square, to the dis­may of the Vic­to­ri­an estab­lish­ment.

Bicy­cles “gave women a new lev­el of trans­porta­tion inde­pen­dence that per­plexed news­pa­per colum­nists” and the gen­er­al pub­lic, writes Adri­enne LaFrance at The Atlantic, quot­ing a San Fran­cis­co jour­nal­ist in 1895:

It real­ly does­n’t mat­ter much where this one indi­vid­ual young lady is going on her wheel. It may be that she’s going to the park on plea­sure bent, or to the store for a dozen hair­pins, or to call on a sick friend at the oth­er side of town, or to get a doily pat­tern of some­body, or a recipe for remov­ing tan and freck­les. Let that be as it may. What the inter­est­ed pub­lic wish­es to know is, Where are all the women on wheels going? Is there a grand ren­dezvous some­where toward which they are all head­ed and where they will some time hold a meet that will cause this wob­bly old world to wake up and read­just itself?

Women cyclists were seen as the advanced guard of a com­ing war. “Square­ly in the cen­ter of this bat­tle was one tool,” notes the Vox video above, “that com­plete­ly changed the game.” Both Susan B. Antho­ny and Eliz­a­beth Cady Stan­ton are cred­it­ed with declar­ing that ‘woman is rid­ing to suf­frage on the bicy­cle,’ a line that was print­ed and reprint­ed in news­pa­pers at the turn of the cen­tu­ry,” LaFrance writes. By the 1890s, every­one rode bicy­cles, the first Tour de France was only a few years away, and cycling tech­nol­o­gy had come so far that it would help cre­ate both the car—with its inno­v­a­tive pneu­mat­ic tires and spoked wheels—and the air­plane, through the exper­i­ments of Ohio bicy­cle-mak­ers the Wright Broth­ers.

The new bikes, orig­i­nal­ly called “safe­ty bikes” to con­trast them with giant-wheeled pen­ny-far­things that were briefly the norm, may not have devel­oped gear­ing sys­tems yet, but they were far lighter, cheap­er, and eas­i­er to ride (com­par­a­tive­ly) than the bicy­cles that had come before, which began as play­things for wealthy young men-about-town. The Nation­al Women’s His­to­ry Muse­um describes the scene:

At the turn of the cen­tu­ry, trains, auto­mo­biles, and street­cars were grow­ing in use in urban areas, but peo­ple still large­ly depend­ed on hors­es for trans­porta­tion. Hors­es, and espe­cial­ly car­riages, were expen­sive and women often had to depend on men to hitch up the hors­es for trav­el…. Sur­round­ed by inef­fi­cient and expen­sive forms of trav­el, bicy­cles arrived in cities with the promise of prac­ti­cal­i­ty and afford­abil­i­ty. Bicy­cles were rel­a­tive­ly inex­pen­sive and pro­vid­ed men and women with indi­vid­ual trans­porta­tion for busi­ness, sports, or recre­ation.

Not only did bicy­cles give women equal access to per­son­al rapid tran­sit, but they did so for women of many dif­fer­ent social class­es. The lev­el­ing effects were sig­nif­i­cant, as were the changes to women’s fash­ion. Exposed calves (though still encased in var­i­ous cycling boots) pre­pared the way for trousers. Tra­di­tion­al­ists were out­raged, cease­less­ly mocked women on bikes, as they mocked the suf­frag­ists, and pushed for restric­tions on full free­dom of move­ment. “Whilst the 1890s saw dis­cours­es of mid­dle-class fem­i­nin­i­ty become rec­on­ciled with the notion of women on bicy­cles,” The Vic­to­ri­an Cyclist points out, “learn­ing to ride a bicy­cle required mid­dle-class women to care­ful­ly nav­i­gate their way through a set of high­ly con­ser­v­a­tive and rigid gen­der norms.”

Despite media efforts to tamp down or tame the rev­o­lu­tion­ary poten­tial of the bicy­cle for women, the mar­ket that made the machines saw no prob­lem with increas­ing sales. Bicy­cle poster art and adver­tis­ing from the turn of the 20th cen­tu­ry is dom­i­nat­ed by women cyclists, who are por­trayed as ordi­nary ram­blers about town, hip adven­tur­ers, ultra-mod­ern “New Women,” and, per­haps less pro­gres­sive­ly, nude god­dess­es. Whether we call it Gild­ed Age, Belle Epoque, or Fin de siè­cle, the end of the 19th cen­tu­ry pro­duced a trans­porta­tion rev­o­lu­tion that was also, through no par­tic­u­lar­ly con­scious design of the mak­ers of the bicy­cle, a rev­o­lu­tion in wom­en’s rights and thus human free­dom writ large.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

The Library of Con­gress Dig­i­tizes Over 16,000 Pages of Let­ters & Speech­es from the Women’s Suf­frage Move­ment, and You Can Help Tran­scribe Them

Odd Vin­tage Post­cards Doc­u­ment the Pro­pa­gan­da Against Women’s Rights 100 Years Ago

How Bicy­cles Can Rev­o­lu­tion­ize Our Lives: Case Stud­ies from the Unit­ed States, Nether­lands, Chi­na & Britain

The First 100 Years of the Bicy­cle: A 1915 Doc­u­men­tary Shows How the Bike Went from Its Clunky Birth in 1818, to Its Endur­ing Design in 1890

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

 

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

If you want to learn how the plan­ets move, you’ll almost cer­tain­ly go to one place first: Youtube. Yes, there have been plen­ty of worth­while books writ­ten on the sub­ject, and read­ing them will prove essen­tial to fur­ther deep­en­ing your under­stand­ing. But videos have the capac­i­ty of motion, an unde­ni­able ben­e­fit when motion itself is the con­cept under dis­cus­sion. Less than twen­ty years into the Youtube age, we’ve already seen a good deal of inno­va­tion in the art of audio­vi­su­al expla­na­tion. But we’re also well over half a mil­len­ni­um into the age of the book as we know it, a time that even in its ear­ly phas­es saw impres­sive attempts to go beyond text on a page.

Take, for exam­ple, Peter Api­an’s Cos­mo­graphia, first pub­lished in 1524. A 16th-cen­tu­ry Ger­man poly­math, Api­an (also known as Petrus Api­anus, and born Peter Bienewitz) had a pro­fes­sion­al inter­est in math­e­mat­ics, astron­o­my and car­tog­ra­phy. At their inter­sec­tion stood the sub­ject of “cos­mog­ra­phy” from which this impres­sive book takes its name, and its project of map­ping the then-known uni­verse.

“The trea­tise pro­vid­ed instruc­tion in astron­o­my, geog­ra­phy, car­tog­ra­phy, nav­i­ga­tion, and instru­ment-mak­ing,” writes Frank Swetz at the Math­e­mat­i­cal Asso­ci­a­tion of Amer­i­ca. “It was one of the first Euro­pean books to depict and dis­cuss North Amer­i­ca and includ­ed mov­able volvelles allow­ing the read­ers to inter­act with and use some of the charts and instru­ment lay­outs pre­sent­ed.”

Pop-up book enthu­si­asts like Ellen Rubin will know what volvelles are; you and I may not, but if you’ve ever moved a paper wheel or slid­er on a page, you’ve used one. The volvelle first emerged in the medieval era, not as an amuse­ment to liv­en up chil­dren’s books but as a kind of “ana­log com­put­er” embed­ded in seri­ous sci­en­tif­ic works. “The volvelles make the prac­ti­cal nature of cos­mog­ra­phy clear,” writes Katie Tay­lor at Cam­bridge’s Whip­ple Library, which holds a copy of Cos­mo­graphia. “Read­ers could manip­u­late these devices to solve prob­lems: find­ing the time at dif­fer­ent places and or one’s lat­i­tude, giv­en the height of the Sun above the hori­zon.”

Api­an orig­i­nal­ly includ­ed three such volvelles in Cos­mo­graphia. Lat­er, his dis­ci­ple Gem­ma Fri­sius, a Dutch physi­cian, instru­ment mak­er and math­e­mati­cian, pro­duced expand­ed edi­tions that includ­ed anoth­er. “In all its forms,” writes Swetz, “the book was extreme­ly pop­u­lar in the 16th cen­tu­ry, going through 30 print­ings in 14 lan­guages.” Despite the book’s suc­cess, it’s not so easy to come by a copy in good (indeed work­ing) con­di­tion near­ly 500 years lat­er. If these descrip­tions of its pages and their volvelles have piqued your curios­i­ty, you can see these inge­nious paper devices in action in these videos tweet­ed out by Atlas Obscu­ra. As with plan­ets them­selves, you can’t ful­ly appre­ci­ate them until you see them move for your­self.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Atlas of Space: Behold Bril­liant Maps of Con­stel­la­tions, Aster­oids, Plan­ets & “Every­thing in the Solar Sys­tem Big­ger Than 10km”

An Illus­trat­ed Map of Every Known Object in Space: Aster­oids, Dwarf Plan­ets, Black Holes & Much More

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

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

A Look Inside William S. Burroughs’ Bunker

When every­body had one or two vod­kas and smoked a few joints, it was always the time for the blow­gun. —John Giorno

From 1974 to 1982, writer William S. Bur­roughs lived in a for­mer lock­er room of a 19th-cen­tu­ry for­mer-YMCA on New York City’s Low­er East Side.

When he moved on, his stuff, includ­ing his worn out shoes, his gun mags, the type­writer on which he wrote Cities of the Red Night, and half of The Place of Dead Roads, a well-worn copy of The Med­ical Impli­ca­tions of Karate Blows, and a lamp made from a work­ing Civ­il war-era rifle, remained.

His friend, neigh­bor, tour­mate, and occa­sion­al lover, poet John Giorno pre­served “The Bunker” large­ly as Bur­roughs had left it, and seems to delight in rehash­ing old times dur­ing a 2017 tour for the Louisiana Chan­nel, above.

It’s hard to believe that Bur­roughs found Giorno to be “patho­log­i­cal­ly silent” in the ear­ly days of their acquain­tance:

He just would­n’t say any­thing. You could be there with him the whole evening, he wouldn’t say a word. It was not the shy­ness of youth, it was much more than that, it was a very deep lack of abil­i­ty to com­mu­ni­cate. Then he had can­cer and after the oper­a­tion that was com­plete­ly reversed and now he is at times a com­pul­sive talk­er, when he gets going there is no stop­ping him.

Accord­ing to Bur­roughs’ com­pan­ion, edi­tor and lit­er­ary execu­tor, James Grauer­holz, dur­ing this peri­od in Bur­roughs’ life, “John was the per­son who con­tributed most to William’s care and upkeep and friend­ship and loved him.”

Giorno also pre­pared Bur­roughs’ favorite dishbacon wrapped chick­enand joined him for tar­get prac­tice with the blow­gun and a BB gun whose pro­jec­tiles were force­ful enough to pen­e­trate a phone­book.

Prox­im­i­ty meant Giorno was well acquaint­ed with the sched­ules that gov­erned Bur­roughs’ life, from wak­ing and writ­ing, to his dai­ly dose of methadone and first vod­ka-and-Coke of the day.

He was present for many din­ner par­ties with famous friends includ­ing Andy WarholLou ReedFrank Zap­paAllen Gins­bergDeb­bie Har­ryKei­th Har­ingJean-Michel Basquiat, and Pat­ti Smith, who recalled vis­it­ing the Bunker in her Nation­al Book Award-win­ning mem­oir, Just Kids:

It was the street of winos and they would often have five cylin­dri­cal trash cans to keep warm, to cook, or light their cig­a­rettes. You could look down the Bow­ery and see these fires glow­ing right to William’s door… he camped in the Bunker with his type­writer, his shot­gun and his over­coat.

All Giorno had to do was walk upstairs to enjoy Bur­roughs’ com­pa­ny, but all oth­er vis­i­tors were sub­ject­ed to strin­gent secu­ri­ty mea­sures, as described by Vic­tor Bock­ris in With William Bur­roughs: A Report from the Bunker:

To get into the Bunker one had to pass through three locked gates and a gray bul­let­proof met­al door. To get through the gates you had to tele­phone from a near­by phone booth, at which point some­one would come down and labo­ri­ous­ly unlock, then relock three gates before lead­ing you up the sin­gle flight of gray stone stairs to the omi­nous front door of William S. Bur­roughs’ head­quar­ters.

Although Bur­roughs lived sim­ply, he did make some mod­i­fi­ca­tions to his $250/month rental. He repaint­ed the bat­tle­ship gray floor white to coun­ter­act the lack of nat­ur­al light. It’s pret­ty impreg­nable.

He also installed an Orgone Accu­mu­la­tor, the inven­tion of psy­cho­an­a­lyst William Reich, who believed that spend­ing time in the cab­i­net would improve the sitter’s men­tal, phys­i­cal, and cre­ative well­be­ing by expos­ing them to a mys­te­ri­ous uni­ver­sal life force he dubbed orgone ener­gy.

(“How could you get up in the morn­ing with a hang­over and go sit in one of these things?” Giorno chuck­les. “The hang­over is enough!”)

Includ­ed in the tour are excerpts of Giorno’s 1997 poem “The Death of William Bur­roughs.” Take it with a bit of salt, or an open­ness to the idea of astral body trav­el.

As per biog­ra­ph­er Bar­ry Miles, Bur­roughs died in the Lawrence Memo­r­i­al Hos­pi­tal ICU in Kansas, a day after suf­fer­ing a heart attack. His only vis­i­tors were James Grauer­holz, his assis­tant Tom Pes­chio, and Dean Ripa, a friend who’d been expect­ed for din­ner the night he fell ill.

Poet­ic license aside, the poem pro­vides extra insight into the men’s friend­ship, and Bur­roughs’ time in the Bunker:

The Death of William Bur­roughs

by John Giorno

William died on August 2, 1997, Sat­ur­day at 6:01 in the
after­noon from com­pli­ca­tions from a mas­sive heart attack
he’d had the day before. He was 83 years old. I was with
William Bur­roughs when he died, and it was one of the best
times I ever had with him.  

Doing Tibetan Nying­ma Bud­dhist med­i­ta­tion prac­tices, I
absorbed William’s con­scious­ness into my heart. It seemed as
a bright white light, blind­ing but mut­ed, emp­ty. I was the
vehi­cle, his con­scious­ness pass­ing through me. A gen­tle
shoot­ing star came in my heart and up the cen­tral chan­nel,
and out the top of my head to a pure field of great clar­i­ty
and bliss. It was very powerful—William Bur­roughs rest­ing
in great equa­nim­i­ty, and the vast emp­ty expanse of
pri­mor­dial wis­dom mind.

I was stay­ing in William’s house, doing my med­i­ta­tion
prac­tices for him, try­ing to main­tain good con­di­tions and
dis­solve any obsta­cles that might be aris­ing for him at that
very moment in the bar­do. I was con­fi­dent that William had
a high degree of real­iza­tion, but he was not a com­plete­ly
enlight­ened being. Lazy, alco­holic, junkie William. I didn’t
allow doubt to arise in my mind, even for an instant,
because it would allow doubt to arise in William’s mind.

Now, I had to do it for him.

What went into William Bur­roughs’ cof­fin with his dead body:

About ten in the morn­ing on Tues­day, August 6, 1997,
James Grauer­holz and 
Ira Sil­ver­berg came to William’s
house to pick out the clothes for the funer­al direc­tor to put
on William’s corpse. His clothes were in a clos­et in my
room. And we picked the things to go into William’s cof­fin
and grave, accom­pa­ny­ing him on his jour­ney in the
under­world.

His most favorite gun, a 38 spe­cial snub-nose, ful­ly loaded
with five shots. He called it, “The Snub­by.” The gun was my
idea. “This is very impor­tant!” William always said you can
nev­er be too well armed in any sit­u­a­tion. Of his more than
80 world-class guns, it was his favorite. He often wore it on
his belt dur­ing the day, and slept with it, ful­ly loaded, on
his right side, under the bed sheet, every night for fif­teen
years.

Grey fedo­ra. He always wore a hat when he went out. We
want­ed his con­scious­ness to feel per­fect­ly at ease, dead.

His favorite cane, a sword cane made of hick­o­ry with a
light rose­wood fin­ish.

Sport jack­et, black with a dark green tint. We rum­maged
through the clos­et and it was the best of his shab­by clothes,
and smelling sweet of him.

Blue jeans, the least worn ones were the only ones clean.

Red ban­dana. He always kept one in his back pock­et.

Jock­ey under­wear and socks.  

Black shoes. The ones he wore when he per­formed. I
thought the old brown ones, that he wore all the time,
because they were com­fort­able. James Grauer­holz insist­ed,
“There’s an old CIA slang that says get­ting a new
assign­ment is get­ting new shoes.”

White shirt. We had bought it in a men’s shop in Bev­er­ly
Hills in 1981 on The Red Night Tour. It was his best shirt,
all the oth­ers were a bit ragged, and even though it had
become tight, he’d lost a lot of weight, and we thought it
would fit.  James said,” Don’t they slit it down the back
any­way.”

Neck­tie, blue, hand paint­ed by William.

Moroc­can vest, green vel­vet with gold bro­cade trim, giv­en
him by 
Brion Gysin, twen­ty-five years before.

In his lapel but­ton hole, the rosette of the French
gov­ern­men­t’s Com­man­deur des Arts et Let­tres, and the
rosette of the Amer­i­can Acad­e­my of Arts and Let­ters,
hon­ors which William very much appre­ci­at­ed.

A gold coin in his pants pock­et. A gold 19th Cen­tu­ry Indi­an
head five dol­lar piece, sym­bol­iz­ing all wealth. William
would have enough mon­ey to buy his way in the
under­world.

His eye­glass­es in his out­side breast pock­et.

A ball point pen, the kind he always used. “He was a
writer!”, and some­times wrote long hand.

A joint of real­ly good grass.

Hero­in. Before the funer­al ser­vice, Grant Hart slipped a
small white paper pack­et into William’s pock­et. “Nobody’s
going to bust him.” said Grant. William, bejew­eled with all
his adorn­ments, was trav­el­ing in the under­world.

I kissed him. An ear­ly LP album of us togeth­er, 1975, was
called 
Bit­ing Off The Tongue Of A Corpse. I kissed him on
the lips, but I did­n’t do it .  .  . and I should have.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Call Me Bur­roughs: Hear William S. Bur­roughs Read from Naked Lunch & The Soft Machine in His First Spo­ken Word Album (1965)

How William S. Bur­roughs Influ­enced Rock and Roll, from the 1960s to Today

William S. Bur­roughs’ Class on Writ­ing Sources (1976) 

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. She most recent­ly appeared as a French Cana­di­an bear who trav­els to New York City in search of food and mean­ing in Greg Kotis’ short film, L’Ourse.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

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

The print­ing his­to­ry of ear­ly Eng­lish books may not seem like the most fas­ci­nat­ing sub­ject in the world, but if you men­tion the name William Cax­ton to a book his­to­ri­an, you may get a fas­ci­nat­ing lec­ture nonethe­less. Cax­ton, the mer­chant and diplo­mat who intro­duced the print­ing press to Eng­land in 1476, was an unusu­al­ly enter­pris­ing fig­ure. He first learned the trade in Cologne and was pres­sured to begin print­ing in Eng­lish after the suc­cess of his trans­la­tion of the Recuyell of the His­to­ryes of Troye, a series of sto­ries based on Homer’s Ili­ad. His first known print­ed book was Chaucer’s Can­ter­bury Tales, and he went on to print trans­la­tions of clas­si­cal and medieval texts from the French.

Caxton’s (often inac­cu­rate) trans­la­tions became so pop­u­lar that, like Chaucer, he intro­duced new stan­dards into the lan­guage as a whole with his use of court Chancery Eng­lish. The books print­ed at the time also give us a fas­ci­nat­ing look at how the print­ed book evolved slow­ly as a new source of sci­en­tif­ic infor­ma­tion and a means of lit­er­ary inno­va­tion.

The so-called Guten­berg Rev­o­lu­tion did not ush­er in a rad­i­cal break with the late medieval past so much as a grad­ual evo­lu­tion away from its adher­ence to clas­si­cal and church author­i­ties and chival­ric romance sto­ries. It would take ear­ly mod­ern writ­ers like Shake­speare, Cer­vantes, and Fran­cis Bacon to tru­ly rev­o­lu­tion­ize the pos­si­bil­i­ties of print.

The first illus­trat­ed book Cax­ton print­ed in Eng­lish offers an excel­lent exam­ple of ear­ly print­ing history’s reliance on repro­duc­ing extant medieval ideas rather than dis­sem­i­nat­ing new ones. The Mir­ror of the World, first writ­ten in French as L’image du monde, was an ency­clo­pe­dia based on a 12th cen­tu­ry text by Hon­o­rius Augus­to­dunen­sis called Ima­go mun­di. “Ency­clo­pe­dic texts were pop­u­lar through­out the Mid­dle Ages,” Glas­gow Uni­ver­si­ty Library notes. “Dur­ing this peri­od it was com­mon­ly believed that it was pos­si­ble to cre­ate one vol­ume digests of all knowl­edge,” draw­ing sole­ly on clas­si­cal and Bib­li­cal author­i­ties. In the intro­duc­tion to Caxton’s text, we are told that the book “treateth of the world & of the won­der­ful dyui­sion [divi­sion] there­of.”

We are quite a long way yet from the Roy­al Society’s mot­to Nul­lius in ver­ba, or “take no one’s word for it.” But Caxton’s press made sev­er­al medieval man­u­script prose works avail­able for the first time to a new read­er­ship. “Evi­dence of ear­ly own­er­ship of copies of his edi­tions,” writes the British Library, “sug­gests the social breadth of that audi­ence, includ­ing roy­al­ty, nobil­i­ty, gen­try, the mer­can­tile class­es and reli­gious hous­es.” Cax­ton was “not con­tent to sim­ply draw on  pre-exist­ing mar­kets for man­u­scripts.” And he would even­tu­al­ly use print “to cre­ate new mar­kets for nov­el and dif­fer­ent kinds of writ­ing,” such as the 1485 pub­li­ca­tion of Thomas Malory’s con­tem­po­rary Arthuri­an romance, Le Morte D’arthur.

Rep­re­sent­ing the con­fi­dent but cramped world­view of the medieval sci­ences, the Mir­ror of the World is “ambi­tious,” Alli­son Meier writes at Hyper­al­ler­gic, dis­pelling any notion of a flat Earth, with descrip­tions of “large ideas like the round­ness of the Earth and why we expe­ri­ence day and night… Along with some his­tor­i­cal infor­ma­tion, there are descrip­tions of the Earth, the solar sys­tem, and eclipses. The round shape of the Earth is illus­trat­ed by two men who stand back-to-back, walk­ing away from each oth­er and meet­ing again in a cir­cle. Anoth­er describes the same idea with a rock tossed through a hole sliced in the world, with it tum­bling out the oth­er side.”

Mike Mill­ward of the Black­burn Muse­um describes the images fur­ther:

The illus­tra­tions are wood­cut prints which could be print­ed as part of the text. Cax­ton’s prints were prob­a­bly pro­duced in Eng­land and are rather prim­i­tive. Many are mere­ly illus­tra­tive… Oth­ers are essen­tial to an under­stand­ing of the text, such those illus­trat­ing the round­ness of the Earth and the effect of grav­i­ty, both show­ing a sur­pris­ing­ly mod­ern under­stand­ing

These illus­tra­tions, notes John T. McQuil­lan, assis­tant cura­tor of print­ed books at the Pier­pont Mor­gan library, were remark­ably pre­served from the orig­i­nal French text of two cen­turies ear­li­er. “Print only car­ried on exist­ing man­u­script and tex­tu­al tra­di­tions,” he notes, “and did not rad­i­cal­ly alter them, at first. Any­one who want­ed to buy this text would have expect­ed it to have these spe­cif­ic illus­tra­tions, and Cax­ton pro­vid­ed that to them.” Pier­pont Mor­gan him­self, who owned sev­er­al of Caxton’s ear­ly print­ed books, “val­ued Cax­ton even over Guten­berg,” Meier writes, and “had the print­er paint­ed on the ceil­ing of his library’s East Room.”

Anoth­er rare books library, Princeton’s Schei­de, which holds per­haps the finest col­lec­tion of ear­ly Euro­pean and Amer­i­can print­ing in the world, fea­tures a scanned full-text edi­tion of Mir­ror of the World, the first illus­trat­ed book print­ed in Eng­land and a work that sits square­ly on the thresh­old between the medieval and the mod­ern, and that chal­lenges our ideas about both des­ig­na­tions.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

One of World’s Old­est Books Print­ed in Mul­ti-Col­or Now Opened & Dig­i­tized for the First Time

See the Old­est Print­ed Adver­tise­ment in Eng­lish: An Ad for a Book from 1476

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

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

20 Lessons from the 20th Century About How to Defend Democracy from Authoritarianism: A Timely List from Yale Historian Timothy Snyder

Image by Rob Kall, via Flickr Com­mons

Tim­o­thy Sny­der, Housum Pro­fes­sor of His­to­ry at Yale Uni­ver­si­ty, is one of the fore­most schol­ars in the U.S. and Europe on the rise and fall of total­i­tar­i­an­ism dur­ing the 1930s and 40s. Among his long list of appoint­ments and pub­li­ca­tions, he has won mul­ti­ple awards for his recent inter­na­tion­al best­sellers Blood­lands: Europe between Hitler and Stal­in and last year’s Black Earth: The Holo­caust as His­to­ry and Warn­ingThat book in part makes the argu­ment that Nazism wasn’t only a Ger­man nation­al­ist move­ment but had glob­al colo­nial­ist origins—in Rus­sia, Africa, and in the U.S., the nation that pio­neered so many meth­ods of human exter­mi­na­tion, racist dehu­man­iza­tion, and ide­o­log­i­cal­ly-jus­ti­fied land grabs.

The hyper-cap­i­tal­ism por­trayed in the U.S.—even dur­ing the Depression—Snyder writes, fueled Hitler’s imag­i­na­tion, such that he promised Ger­mans “a life com­pa­ra­ble to that of the Amer­i­can peo­ple,” whose “racial­ly pure and uncor­rupt­ed” Ger­man pop­u­la­tion he described as “world class.” Sny­der describes Hitler’s ide­ol­o­gy as a myth of racial­ist strug­gle in which “there are real­ly no val­ues in the world except for the stark real­i­ty that we are born in order to take things from oth­er peo­ple.” Or as we often hear these days, that act­ing in accor­dance with this prin­ci­ple is the “smart” thing to do. Like many far right fig­ures before and after, Hitler aimed to restore a state of nature that for him was a per­pet­u­al state of race war for impe­r­i­al dom­i­nance.

After the Novem­ber 2016 elec­tion, Sny­der wrote a pro­file of Hitler, a short piece that made no direct com­par­isons to any con­tem­po­rary fig­ure. But read­ing the facts of the his­tor­i­cal case alarmed most read­ers. A few days lat­er, the his­to­ri­an appeared on a Slate pod­cast to dis­cuss the arti­cle, say­ing that after he sub­mit­ted it, “I real­ized there was more.… there are an awful lot of echoes.” Sny­der admits that his­to­ry doesn’t actu­al­ly repeat itself. But we’re far too quick, he says, to dis­miss that idea as a cliché “and not think about his­to­ry at all. His­to­ry shows a range of pos­si­bil­i­ties.” Sim­i­lar events occur across time under sim­i­lar kinds of con­di­tions. And it is, of course, pos­si­ble to learn from the past.

If you’ve heard oth­er informed analy­sis but haven’t read Snyder’s New York Review of Books columns on fas­cism in Putin’s Rus­sia or the for­mer Yanukovich’s Ukraine, or his long arti­cle “Hitler’s World May Not Be So Far Away,” you may have seen his wide­ly-shared Face­book post mak­ing the rounds. As he argued in The Guardian last Sep­tem­ber, today we may be “too cer­tain we are eth­i­cal­ly supe­ri­or to the Euro­peans of the 1940s.” On Novem­ber, 15, 2016 Sny­der wrote on Face­book that “Amer­i­cans are no wis­er than the Euro­peans who saw democ­ra­cy yield to fas­cism, Nazism, or com­mu­nism.” Sny­der has been crit­i­cized for con­flat­ing these regimes, and ris­ing “into the top rungs of pun­dit­dom,” but when it comes to body counts and lev­els of sup­pres­sive malig­nan­cy, it’s hard to argue that Stal­in­ist Rus­sia, any more than Tsarist Rus­sia, was anyone’s idea of a democ­ra­cy.

Rather than mak­ing a his­tor­i­cal case for view­ing the U.S. as exact­ly like one of the total­i­tar­i­an regimes of WWII Europe, Sny­der presents 20 lessons we might learn from those times and use cre­ative­ly in our own where they apply. In my view, fol­low­ing his sug­ges­tions would make us wis­er, more self-aware, proac­tive, respon­si­ble cit­i­zens, what­ev­er lies ahead. Read Snyder’s lessons from his Face­book post below and con­sid­er order­ing his lat­est book On Tyran­ny: Twen­ty Lessons from the Twen­ti­eth Cen­tu­ry:

1. Do not obey in advance. Much of the pow­er of author­i­tar­i­an­ism is freely giv­en. In times like these, indi­vid­u­als think ahead about what a more repres­sive gov­ern­ment will want, and then start to do it with­out being asked. You’ve already done this, haven’t you? Stop. Antic­i­pa­to­ry obe­di­ence teach­es author­i­ties what is pos­si­ble and accel­er­ates unfree­dom.

2. Defend an insti­tu­tion. Fol­low the courts or the media, or a court or a news­pa­per. Do not speak of “our insti­tu­tions” unless you are mak­ing them yours by act­ing on their behalf. Insti­tu­tions don’t pro­tect them­selves. They go down like domi­noes unless each is defend­ed from the begin­ning.

3. Recall pro­fes­sion­al ethics. When the lead­ers of state set a neg­a­tive exam­ple, pro­fes­sion­al com­mit­ments to just prac­tice become much more impor­tant. It is hard to break a rule-of-law state with­out lawyers, and it is hard to have show tri­als with­out judges.

4. When lis­ten­ing to politi­cians, dis­tin­guish cer­tain words. Look out for the expan­sive use of “ter­ror­ism” and “extrem­ism.” Be alive to the fatal notions of “excep­tion” and “emer­gency.” Be angry about the treach­er­ous use of patri­ot­ic vocab­u­lary.

5. Be calm when the unthink­able arrives. When the ter­ror­ist attack comes, remem­ber that all author­i­tar­i­ans at all times either await or plan such events in order to con­sol­i­date pow­er. Think of the Reich­stag fire. The sud­den dis­as­ter that requires the end of the bal­ance of pow­er, the end of oppo­si­tion par­ties, and so on, is the old­est trick in the Hit­ler­ian book. Don’t fall for it.

6. Be kind to our lan­guage. Avoid pro­nounc­ing the phras­es every­one else does. Think up your own way of speak­ing, even if only to con­vey that thing you think every­one is say­ing. (Don’t use the inter­net before bed. Charge your gad­gets away from your bed­room, and read.) What to read? Per­haps “The Pow­er of the Pow­er­less” by Václav Hav­el, 1984 by George Orwell, The Cap­tive Mind by Czesław Milosz, The Rebel by Albert Camus, The Ori­gins of Total­i­tar­i­an­ism by Han­nah Arendt, or Noth­ing is True and Every­thing is Pos­si­ble by Peter Pomer­ant­sev.

7. Stand out. Some­one has to. It is easy, in words and deeds, to fol­low along. It can feel strange to do or say some­thing dif­fer­ent. But with­out that unease, there is no free­dom. And the moment you set an exam­ple, the spell of the sta­tus quo is bro­ken, and oth­ers will fol­low.

8. Believe in truth. To aban­don facts is to aban­don free­dom. If noth­ing is true, then no one can crit­i­cize pow­er, because there is no basis upon which to do so. If noth­ing is true, then all is spec­ta­cle. The biggest wal­let pays for the most blind­ing lights.

9. Inves­ti­gate. Fig­ure things out for your­self. Spend more time with long arti­cles. Sub­si­dize inves­tiga­tive jour­nal­ism by sub­scrib­ing to print media. Real­ize that some of what is on your screen is there to harm you. Learn about sites that inves­ti­gate for­eign pro­pa­gan­da push­es.

10. Prac­tice cor­po­re­al pol­i­tics. Pow­er wants your body soft­en­ing in your chair and your emo­tions dis­si­pat­ing on the screen. Get out­side. Put your body in unfa­mil­iar places with unfa­mil­iar peo­ple. Make new friends and march with them.

11. Make eye con­tact and small talk. This is not just polite. It is a way to stay in touch with your sur­round­ings, break down unnec­es­sary social bar­ri­ers, and come to under­stand whom you should and should not trust. If we enter a cul­ture of denun­ci­a­tion, you will want to know the psy­cho­log­i­cal land­scape of your dai­ly life.

12. Take respon­si­bil­i­ty for the face of the world. Notice the swastikas and the oth­er signs of hate. Do not look away and do not get used to them. Remove them your­self and set an exam­ple for oth­ers to do so.

13. Hin­der the one-par­ty state. The par­ties that took over states were once some­thing else. They exploit­ed a his­tor­i­cal moment to make polit­i­cal life impos­si­ble for their rivals. Vote in local and state elec­tions while you can.

14. Give reg­u­lar­ly to good caus­es, if you can. Pick a char­i­ty and set up auto­pay. Then you will know that you have made a free choice that is sup­port­ing civ­il soci­ety help­ing oth­ers doing some­thing good.

15. Estab­lish a pri­vate life. Nas­ti­er rulers will use what they know about you to push you around. Scrub your com­put­er of mal­ware. Remem­ber that email is sky­writ­ing. Con­sid­er using alter­na­tive forms of the inter­net, or sim­ply using it less. Have per­son­al exchanges in per­son. For the same rea­son, resolve any legal trou­ble. Author­i­tar­i­an­ism works as a black­mail state, look­ing for the hook on which to hang you. Try not to have too many hooks.

16. Learn from oth­ers in oth­er coun­tries. Keep up your friend­ships abroad, or make new friends abroad. The present dif­fi­cul­ties here are an ele­ment of a gen­er­al trend. And no coun­try is going to find a solu­tion by itself. Make sure you and your fam­i­ly have pass­ports.

17. Watch out for the para­mil­i­taries. When the men with guns who have always claimed to be against the sys­tem start wear­ing uni­forms and march­ing around with torch­es and pic­tures of a Leader, the end is nigh. When the pro-Leader para­mil­i­tary and the offi­cial police and mil­i­tary inter­min­gle, the game is over.

18. Be reflec­tive if you must be armed. If you car­ry a weapon in pub­lic ser­vice, God bless you and keep you. But know that evils of the past involved police­men and sol­diers find­ing them­selves, one day, doing irreg­u­lar things. Be ready to say no. (If you do not know what this means, con­tact the Unit­ed States Holo­caust Memo­r­i­al Muse­um and ask about train­ing in pro­fes­sion­al ethics.)

19. Be as coura­geous as you can. If none of us is pre­pared to die for free­dom, then all of us will die in unfree­dom.

20. Be a patri­ot. The incom­ing pres­i­dent [Trump] is not. Set a good exam­ple of what Amer­i­ca means for the gen­er­a­tions to come. They will need it.

via Kot­tke

Note: This post orig­i­nal­ly appeared on our site in Jan­u­ary 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Sto­ry of Fas­cism: Rick Steves’ Doc­u­men­tary Helps Us Learn from the Hard Lessons of the 20th Cen­tu­ry

Umber­to Eco Makes a List of the 14 Com­mon Fea­tures of Fas­cism

George Orwell’s Final Warn­ing: Don’t Let This Night­mare Sit­u­a­tion Hap­pen. It Depends on You!

Yale Pro­fes­sor Jason Stan­ley Iden­ti­fies 3 Essen­tial Fea­tures of Fas­cism: Invok­ing a Myth­ic Past, Sow­ing Divi­sion & Attack­ing Truth

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

Behold an Interactive Online Edition of Elizabeth Twining’s Illustrations of the Natural Orders of Plants (1868)

Of all the var­ied objects of cre­ation there is, prob­a­bly, no por­tion that affords so much grat­i­fi­ca­tion and delight to mankind as plants. —Eliz­a­beth Twin­ing

“Who owned nature in the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry?” asks Lon­da Schiebinger in Plants and Empire, a study of what the Stan­ford his­to­ri­an of sci­ence calls “colo­nial bio­prospect­ing in the Atlantic World.” The ques­tion was large­ly decid­ed at the time by “hero­ic voy­ag­ing botanists” and “biopi­rates” who claimed the world’s nat­ur­al resources as their own. The mat­ter was set­tled in the next cou­ple cen­turies by mer­chants like Thomas Twin­ing and his descen­dants, pro­pri­etors of Twin­ings tea. Found­ed as Britain’s first known tea shop in 1706, the com­pa­ny went on to become one of the largest pur­vey­ors of teas grown in the British colonies.

One of Twining’s descen­dants, Eliz­a­beth Twin­ing, car­ried on the lega­cy as what Schiebinger calls one of many “arm­chair nat­u­ral­ists, who coor­di­nat­ed and syn­the­sized col­lect­ing from sinecures in Europe,” a role often tak­en on by women who could not trav­el the world. Twin­ing aimed, how­ev­er, not to cre­ate tax­onomies of the world’s plants but those of her own coun­try in a com­par­a­tive analy­sis.

Her 1868 Illus­tra­tions of the Nat­ur­al Orders of Plants, she wrote in her intro­duc­tion, was “the first work which has thus done due hon­our to our British plants by con­nect­ing with oth­ers, and plac­ing them when­ev­er pos­si­ble at the head of the Order to be illus­trat­ed.”

Twining’s reval­u­a­tion of local British plants was in keep­ing with the reformist spir­it of the age, and she her­self was such a reformer. “Apart from her artis­tic endeav­ors,” writes Nicholas Rougeaux, Twin­ing “was a notable phil­an­thropist,” estab­lish­ing almshous­es and tem­per­ance halls, found­ing “mother’s meet­ings” in Lon­don, and help­ing to found the Bed­ford Col­lege for Women. She was inspired by Curtis’s The Botan­i­cal Mag­a­zine and “she prac­ticed by mak­ing sketch­es from works in the Dul­wich Pic­ture Gallery, and toured famous muse­ums thanks to her father’s patron­age.”

Twin­ing authored and illus­trat­ed sev­er­al botan­i­cal books, “most notably,” Rougeux writes, “the two vol­ume Illus­tra­tions of the Nat­ur­al Orders of Plants, which includ­ed a total of 160 hand-col­ored lith­o­graphs, roy­al folio, report­ed­ly based on obser­va­tion at the Roy­al Botan­i­cal Gar­dens in Kew and at Lex­den Park in Colch­ester.” Rougeux has done for her work what the design­er pre­vi­ous­ly did for oth­er illus­trat­ed clas­sics of sci­ence and math (see the relat­ed links below): dig­i­tiz­ing the illus­tra­tions and translit­er­at­ing the text into a dig­i­tal for­mat, with hyper­links and shar­ing fea­tures.

Rougeux’s Illus­tra­tions of the Nat­ur­al Orders of Plants offers itself as “a com­plete repro­duc­tion and restora­tion… enhanced with inter­ac­tive illus­tra­tions, descrip­tions, and posters fea­tur­ing the illus­tra­tions.” The first two vol­umes of the orig­i­nal book were pub­lished in 1849 and 1855. Rougeux’s online ver­sion of the text is based on the 1868 sec­ond edi­tion “with re-drawn illus­tra­tions based on her orig­i­nals.” (See pages from the text above and below.) Rougeux’s dig­i­tized text is thus two steps removed from Twining’s orig­i­nal illus­tra­tions, but we can see the care and atten­tion she put into clas­si­fy­ing the flo­ra of her native coun­try.

“Twin­ing chose to illus­trate plants using the clas­si­fi­ca­tion sys­tem cre­at­ed by Augustin-Pyra­me de Can­dolle based on mul­ti­ple char­ac­ter­is­tics of plants—rather than the more wide­ly used sys­tem by Carl Lin­naeus which was focused on plants’ repro­duc­tive char­ac­ter­is­tics,” notes Rougeux, “because the De Can­dolle sys­tem was new­er and she want­ed her read­ers to be up to date as clas­si­fi­ca­tion sys­tems were evolv­ing.”

Although bio­log­i­cal tax­onomies have changed con­sid­er­ably since her time, Twining’s Illus­tra­tions of the Nat­ur­al Orders of Plants remains an intrigu­ing “snap­shot in time” that depicts not only the lat­est ideas about plant clas­si­fi­ca­tion in the mid-19th cen­tu­ry but also the atti­tudes a promi­nent mem­ber of the British rul­ing class adopt­ed toward nature as a whole. See Rougeux’s online edi­tion of Twin­ing’s text here.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Explore an Inter­ac­tive, Online Ver­sion of the Beau­ti­ful­ly Illus­trat­ed, 200-Year-Old British & Exot­ic Min­er­al­o­gy

A Beau­ti­ful­ly-Designed Edi­tion of Euclid’s Ele­ments from 1847 Gets Dig­i­tized: Explore the New Online, Inter­ac­tive Repro­duc­tion

Explore an Inter­ac­tive, Online Ver­sion of Werner’s Nomen­cla­ture of Colours, a 200-Year-Old Guide to the Col­ors of the Nat­ur­al World

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

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