How Egyptian Papyrus Is Made: Watch Artisans Keep a 5,000-Year-Old Art Alive

In 2013, French Egyp­tol­o­gist Pierre Tal­let dis­cov­ered in an exca­va­tion site near the Red Sea “entire rolls of papyrus, some a few feet long and still rel­a­tive­ly intact, writ­ten in hiero­glyph­ics as well as hier­at­ic, the cur­sive script the ancient Egyp­tians used for every­day com­mu­ni­ca­tion,” Alexan­der Stille writes at Smith­son­ian. The scrolls con­tained the “Diary of Mer­er,” the jour­nals of an offi­cial who led a trans­porta­tion crew, and who observed the build­ing of the largest of the pyra­mids. It has been called “the great­est dis­cov­ery in Egypt in the 21st cen­tu­ry.”

The dis­cov­ery of the diary entries and oth­er papyri at the site “pro­vide a nev­er-before-seen snap­shot of the ancients putting fin­ish­ing touch­es on the Great Pyra­mid.” It is also sig­nif­i­cant since Tal­let found “the old­est known papyri in the world” and has helped give researchers greater insight into how papyrus was used by ancient Egyp­tians for care­ful record-keep­ing — in both the lan­guage of priests and scribes and that of ordi­nary mer­chants — since around 3000 BC.

Papyrus was “pro­duced exclu­sive­ly in Egypt, where the papyrus plant grew” notes Uni­ver­si­ty of Michi­gan Libraries, but “papyrus (the writ­ing mate­r­i­al) was export­ed through­out the clas­si­cal world, and it was the most pop­u­lar writ­ing mate­r­i­al for the ancient Greeks and Romans,” becom­ing the most used plat­form for writ­ing by the first cen­tu­ry AD. That changed with the intro­duc­tion of parch­ment and, lat­er, paper; “the large plan­ta­tions in Egypt which used to cul­ti­vate high-grade papyrus for man­u­fac­ture dis­ap­peared,” as did the knowl­edge of papyrus-mak­ing for around 1000 years.

But papyrus (the paper) has come back, even if wild papyri plants are dis­ap­pear­ing as Egypt’s cli­mate changes. While schol­ars in the 20th cen­tu­ry tried, unsuc­cess­ful­ly, to recon­struct papyrus-mak­ing using ancient sources like Pliny’s Nat­ur­al His­to­ry, Egypt­ian crafts­peo­ple in the 1970s rein­vent­ed the process using their own meth­ods, as you can see in the Busi­ness Insid­er video above. “The indus­try thrived, sell­ing papyrus art to tourists,” the video notes, but it has fall­en on hard times as the plants go extinct and demand falls away.

Learn above how mod­ern Egypt­ian papyrus-mak­ers, scribes, and illus­tra­tors ply their trade — a fair­ly good indi­ca­tor of how the ancients must have done it. There may be lit­tle demand for papyrus, or for parch­ment, for that mat­ter, and maybe paper will final­ly go the way of these obso­lete com­mu­ni­ca­tions tech­nolo­gies before long. But as long as there are those who retain the knowl­edge of these arts, we’ll have an inti­mate phys­i­cal con­nec­tion to the writ­ers, artists, and bureau­crats of empires past.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

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

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

Who Built the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids & How Did They Do It?: New Arche­o­log­i­cal Evi­dence Busts Ancient Myths

Learn to Play Senet, the 5,000-Year Old Ancient Egypt­ian Game Beloved by Queens & Pharaohs

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

Tasting History: A Hit YouTube Series Shows How to Cook the Foods of Ancient Greece & Rome, Medieval Europe, and Other Places & Periods

The food of our ances­tors has come back into fash­ion, no mat­ter from where your own ances­tors in par­tic­u­lar hap­pened to hail. Whether moti­vat­ed by a desire to avoid the sup­pos­ed­ly unhealthy ingre­di­ents and process­es intro­duced in moder­ni­ty, a curios­i­ty about the prac­tices of a cul­ture, or sim­ply a spir­it of culi­nary adven­ture, the con­sump­tion of tra­di­tion­al foods has attained a rel­a­tive­ly high pro­file of late. So, indeed, has their prepa­ra­tion: few of us could think of a more tra­di­tion­al food than bread, the home-bak­ing of which became a sweep­ing fad in the Unit­ed States and else­where short­ly after the onset of the COVID-19 pan­dem­ic.

Max Miller, for exam­ple, has baked more than his own share of bread at home. Like no few media-savvy culi­nary hob­by­ists, he’s put the results on Youtube; like those hob­by­ists who devel­op an unquench­able thirst for ever-greater depth and breadth (no pun intend­ed) of knowl­edge about the field, he’s gone well beyond the rudi­ments.

18th-cen­tu­ry Saly Lunn bunsmedieval trencherPom­pei­ian panis quad­ra­tus, even the bread of ancient Egypt: he’s gone a long way indeed beyond sim­ple sour­dough. But in so doing, he’s learned — and taught — a great deal about the vari­ety of civ­i­liza­tions, all of them hearti­ly food-eat­ing, that led up to ours.

“His show, Tast­ing His­to­ry with Max Miller, start­ed in late Feb­ru­ary,” writes Devan Sauer in a pro­file last year for the Phoenix New Times. “Since then, Tast­ing His­to­ry has drawn more than 470,000 sub­scribers and 14 mil­lion views.” Each of its episodes “has a spe­cial seg­ment where Miller explains the his­to­ry of either the ingre­di­ents or the dish’s time peri­od.” These peri­ods come orga­nized into playlists like “Ancient Greek, Roman, & Mesopotami­an Recipes,” “The Best of Medieval & Renais­sance Recipes,” and “18th/19th Cen­tu­ry Recipes.” In his clear­ly exten­sive research, “Miller looks to pri­ma­ry accounts, or anec­do­tal records from the peo­ple them­selves, rather than his­to­ri­ans. He does this so he can get a bet­ter glimpse into what life was like dur­ing a cer­tain time.”

If past, as L.P. Hart­ley put it, is a for­eign coun­try, then Miller’s his­tor­i­cal cook­ery is a form of not just time trav­el, but reg­u­lar trav­el — exact­ly what so few of us have been able to do over the past year and a half. And though most of the recipes fea­tured on Tast­ing His­to­ry have come from West­ern, and specif­i­cal­ly Euro­pean cul­tures, its chan­nel also has a playlist ded­i­cat­ed to non-Euro­pean foods such as Aztec choco­late; the king­ly Indi­an dessert of payasam; and hwa­jeon, the Kore­an “flower pan­cakes” served in 17th-cen­tu­ry snack bars, or eumshik dabang. He’s also pre­pared the snails served at the ther­mopoli­um, the equiv­a­lent estab­lish­ment of the first-cen­tu­ry Roman Empire recent­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture. But how­ev­er impres­sive Miller’s knowl­edge, enthu­si­asm, and skill in the kitchen, he com­mands just as much respect for hav­ing mas­tered Youtube, the true Forum of ear­ly 21st-cen­tu­ry civ­i­liza­tion.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What Did Peo­ple Eat in Medieval Times? A Video Series and New Cook­book Explain

Cook Real Recipes from Ancient Rome: Ostrich Ragoût, Roast Wild Boar, Nut Tarts & More

How to Bake Ancient Roman Bread Dat­ing Back to 79 AD: A Video Primer

Watch a 4000-Year Old Baby­lon­ian Recipe for Stew, Found on a Cuneiform Tablet, Get Cooked by Researchers from Yale & Har­vard

Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty Pro­fes­sor Cooks 4000-Year-Old Recipes from Ancient Mesopotamia, and Lets You See How They Turned Out

How to Make the Old­est Recipe in the World: A Recipe for Net­tle Pud­ding Dat­ing Back 6,000 BC

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 or on Face­book.

What Happened During the 1921 Tulsa Massacre, One of the Worst Episodes of Racial Violence in U.S. History

In Feb­ru­ary 1915, Thomas Dixon, author of pop­u­lar nov­el The Clans­man, and D.W. Grif­fith, the direc­tor who adapt­ed the book into the film Birth of a Nation, lob­bied then-pres­i­dent Woodrow Wil­son for a screen­ing at the White House. The two were sure their sto­ry would get a warm recep­tion from the “well doc­u­ment­ed racist” and one­time schol­ar who pro­duced a five-vol­ume His­to­ry of the Amer­i­can Peo­ple, in which he por­trayed the South as “over­run by ex-slaves who were unde­serv­ing of free­dom,” as Boston Uni­ver­si­ty jour­nal­ism pro­fes­sor Dick Lehr remarks.

Whether or not Wil­son actu­al­ly uttered the words attrib­uted to him after­ward (“It’s like writ­ing his­to­ry with light­ning”), he approved the film’s mes­sage and rebuffed Black lead­ers who were “appalled and out­raged,” says Lehr. The moment was piv­otal for the birth of the Civ­il Rights move­ment, he argues in a recent book. Fol­low­ing the country’s entry into World War I, it also lit the fires of what nov­el­ist, com­pos­er and exec­u­tive direc­tor of the NAACP James Wel­don John­son called “Red Sum­mer”… a sum­mer of lynch­ings, loot­ings, burn­ings, shoot­ings and oth­er vio­lence.

Mass lynch­ings — ignored or mis­con­strued as “race riots” for decades, though now prop­er­ly referred to as mas­sacres — took place all over the coun­try between 1917 and 1923 under var­i­ous pre­texts, “in at least 26 cities,” Deneen Brown writes at Nation­al Geo­graph­ic, “includ­ing Wash­ing­ton, D.C.; Chica­go, Illi­nois; Oma­ha, Nebras­ka; Elaine, Arkansas; Charleston, South Car­oli­na; Colum­bia, Ten­nessee; Hous­ton, Texas,” and — the blood­i­est and most destruc­tive of them all — Tul­sa, Okla­homa, an event many learned about for the first time when the cur­rent pres­i­dent pro­claimed its 100th anniver­sary, May 31st, a “Day of Remem­brance.”

On May 31 and June 1, 1921, the mob who ram­paged through the Tul­sa neigh­bor­hood of Green­wood, a pros­per­ous black com­mu­ni­ty just a gen­er­a­tion removed from slav­ery, killed over 300 Black res­i­dents, “dump­ing their bod­ies into the Arkansas Riv­er or bury­ing them in mass graves. More than a hun­dred busi­ness­es were destroyed, as well as a school, a hos­pi­tal, a library, and dozens of church­es. More than 1,200 Black-owned hous­es burned.” The attack­ers rained death from above: a report by a state-appoint­ed com­mis­sion found “Tul­sa was like­ly the first city” in the coun­try “to be bombed from the air.”

“The eco­nom­ic loss­es in the Black com­mu­ni­ty amount­ed to more than $1 mil­lion,” Brown notes, a fig­ure that can­not account for per­son­al loss­es that res­onat­ed through gen­er­a­tions, like those described by the massacre’s old­est liv­ing sur­vivor, who tes­ti­fied recent­ly before a House sub­com­mit­tee. Son­ali Kol­hatkar writes:

107-year-old Vio­la Fletch­er tes­ti­fied to Con­gress a few weeks ahead of the 100th anniver­sary and recalled grow­ing up as a child in Green­wood in “a beau­ti­ful home” with “great neigh­bors and… friends to play with.” “I had every­thing a child could need. I had a bright future ahead of me,” she said. A few weeks after Fletch­er turned sev­en, the armed men struck on May 31, 1921. After recount­ing the “vio­lence of the white mob,” and her mem­o­ries of see­ing “Black bod­ies lying in the street” and “Black busi­ness­es being burned,” she went on to describe the grind­ing pover­ty she was thrown into as a result of the mas­sacre.

Fletch­er nev­er made it past the fourth grade in school. The promis­ing future that her fam­i­ly had worked hard to give her was oblit­er­at­ed in the ash­es of the Tul­sa Race Mas­sacre. “Most of my life I was a domes­tic work­er serv­ing white fam­i­lies. I nev­er made much mon­ey. To this day I can bare­ly afford my every­day needs,” she told law­mak­ers dur­ing her tes­ti­mo­ny.

That the anniver­sary now falls on Memo­r­i­al Day (then cel­e­brat­ed on May 30th) seems a bit­ter irony giv­en that much of the back­lash toward Black com­mu­ni­ties came from fear of those return­ing Black sol­diers who stood up against the every­day vio­lence of Jim Crow when they returned from over­seas. Birth of a Nation inspired a reborn Ku Klux Klan and its sup­port­ers to turn that fear into a cru­sade, a kind of pre-emp­tive col­lec­tive retal­i­a­tion.

“Dur­ing the mas­sacres, they mur­dered and maimed peo­ple indis­crim­i­nate­ly, unpro­voked,” says Alice M. Thomas, a Carnegie schol­ar and a pro­fes­sor in the School of Law at Howard Uni­ver­si­ty. “They went into homes, stole per­son­al belong­ings, and burned down homes. They used the mas­sacres as a cov­er to mur­der with­out sanc­tion, maim with­out sanc­tion, and steal with­out sanc­tion. No one, to this day, has been held account­able.”

Red Sum­mer was pri­mar­i­ly dri­ven by what now gets cod­ed as “eco­nom­ic anx­i­ety.” Kar­los K. Hill, pro­fes­sor of African and African Amer­i­can Stud­ies at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Okla­homa, explains that “the Green­wood Dis­trict [of Tul­sa] was per­haps the wealth­i­est Black com­mu­ni­ty in the coun­try… a sym­bol of what was pos­si­ble even in Jim Crow Amer­i­ca.” Referred to as “Black Wall Street” — the moniker giv­en to many oth­er such com­mu­ni­ties — Green­wood posed a threat: “The fear was, if Black peo­ple could have eco­nom­ic and polit­i­cal equal­i­ty, then social equal­i­ty would fol­low right behind.”

Rather than face the fright­en­ing prospect of an actu­al democ­ra­cy, thou­sands of white Amer­i­cans lashed out in Red Sum­mer, burn­ing Black Wall Streets to the ground nation­wide. After a cen­tu­ry of denial, the U.S. is only begin­ning to reck­on with the mas­sacres, and specif­i­cal­ly, with Tul­sa. The president’s procla­ma­tion marks a his­toric step in the right direc­tion. In the Vox video above, learn more about a sto­ry “you won’t find in most his­to­ry books.”

As NPR notes, you can also watch anoth­er doc­u­men­tary on the Tul­sa mas­sacre on PBS.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

When White Suprema­cists Over­threw a Gov­ern­ment (1898): The Hid­den His­to­ry of an Amer­i­can Coup

Take The Near Impos­si­ble Lit­er­a­cy Test Louisiana Used to Sup­press the Black Vote (1964)

Hear the Voic­es of Amer­i­cans Born in Slav­ery: The Library of Con­gress Fea­tures 23 Audio Inter­views with For­mer­ly Enslaved Peo­ple (1932–75)

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

Download 1,000+ Beautiful Woodblock Prints by Hiroshige, the Last Great Master of the Japanese Woodblock Print Tradition

For 200 years, begin­ning in the 1630s, Japan closed itself off from the world. In its cap­i­tal of Edo the coun­try boast­ed the largest city in exis­tence, and among its pop­u­la­tion of more than a mil­lion not a sin­gle one was for­eign-born. “Prac­ti­cal­ly the only Euro­peans to have vis­it­ed it were a hand­ful of Dutch­men,” writes pro­fes­sor of Japan­ese his­to­ry Jor­dan Sand in a new Lon­don Review of Books piece, “and so it would remain until the mid-19th cen­tu­ry. No for­eign­ers were per­mit­ted to live or trade on Japan­ese soil except the Dutch and Chi­nese, who were con­fined to enclaves in the port of Nagasa­ki, 750 miles from Edo. No Japan­ese were per­mit­ted to leave: those who dis­obeyed did so on pain of death.”

These cen­turies of iso­la­tion in the Japan­ese cap­i­tal — known today as Tokyo — thus pro­duced next to noth­ing in the way of West­ern­er-com­posed accounts. But “the peo­ple of Edo them­selves left a rich archive,” Sand notes, giv­en the pres­ence among them of no few indi­vid­u­als high­ly skilled in the lit­er­ary and visu­al arts.

Such notable Edo chron­i­clers include Andō Hiroshige, the samu­rai-descend­ed son of a fire­man who grew up to become Uta­gawa Hiroshige, or sim­ply Hiroshige, one of the last mas­ters of the ukiyo‑e wood­block-print­ing tra­di­tion.

Hiroshige’s late “pic­tures of the float­ing world” are among the most vivid images of life in Japan just before it reopened, works that Sand quotes art his­to­ri­an Tim­on Screech as claim­ing “attest to a new sense of Edo’s place in the world.” For the his­to­ri­o­graph­i­cal view of the sakoku (or “closed coun­try”) pol­i­cy has long since come in for revi­sion. The Japan of the mid-17th to late 19th cen­tu­ry may not actu­al­ly have been as closed as all that, or at least not as free of for­eign influ­ence as pre­vi­ous­ly assumed. The evi­dence for this propo­si­tion includes Hiroshige’s ukiyo‑e prints, espe­cial­ly his late series of mas­ter­works One Hun­dred Famous Views of Edo.

Now, thanks to the Min­neapo­lis Insti­tute of Art’s dig­i­tal col­lec­tion, you can take as long and as close a look as you’d like at — and even down­load — more than 1,000 of his works. That’s an impres­sive num­ber for a sin­gle insti­tu­tion, but bear in mind that Hiroshige pro­duced about 8,000 pieces in his life­time, cap­tur­ing not just the attrac­tions of Edo but views from all over his home­land as he knew it, which had already begun to van­ish in the last years of his life. More than a cen­tu­ry and a half on, the coro­n­avirus pan­dem­ic has prompt­ed Japan to put in place entry restric­tions that, for many if not most for­eign­ers around the world, have effec­tive­ly re-closed the coun­try. Japan itself has changed a great deal since the mid-19th cen­tu­ry, but to much of the world it has once again become a land of won­ders acces­si­ble only through its art. Explore 1,000+ wood­block prints by Hiroshige here.

via Colos­sal

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load Hun­dreds of 19th-Cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Wood­block Prints by Mas­ters of the Tra­di­tion

The Met Puts 650+ Japan­ese Illus­trat­ed Books Online: Mar­vel at Hokusai’s One Hun­dred Views of Mount Fuji and More

Down­load 2,500 Beau­ti­ful Wood­block Prints and Draw­ings by Japan­ese Mas­ters (1600–1915)

Enter a Dig­i­tal Archive of 213,000+ Beau­ti­ful Japan­ese Wood­block Prints

The Real Loca­tions of Ukiyo‑e, His­toric Japan­ese Wood­block Prints, Plot­ted on a Google Map

1,000+ His­toric Japan­ese Illus­trat­ed Books Dig­i­tized & Put Online by the Smith­son­ian: From the Edo & Meji Eras (1600–1912)

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 or on Face­book.

Meet the Inventor of Karaoke, Daisuke Inoue, Who Wanted to “Teach the World to Sing”

Daisuke Inoue has been hon­ored with a rare, indeed almost cer­tain­ly unique com­bi­na­tion of lau­rels. In 1999, Time mag­a­zine named him among the “Most Influ­en­tial Asians of the Cen­tu­ry.” Five years lat­er he won an Ig Nobel Prize, which hon­ors par­tic­u­lar­ly strange and ris­i­ble devel­op­ments in sci­ence, tech­nol­o­gy, and cul­ture. Inoue had come up with the device that made his name decades ear­li­er, in the ear­ly 1970s, but its influ­ence has proven endur­ing still today. It is he whom his­to­ry now cred­its with the inven­tion of the karaoke machine, the assist­ed-singing device that the Ig Nobel com­mit­tee, award­ing its Peace Prize, described as “an entire­ly new way for peo­ple to learn to tol­er­ate each oth­er.”

The achieve­ment of an Ig Nobel recip­i­ent should be one that “makes peo­ple laugh, then think.” Over its half-cen­tu­ry of exis­tence, many have laughed at karaoke, espe­cial­ly as osten­si­bly prac­ticed by the drunk­en salary­men of its home­land. But upon fur­ther con­sid­er­a­tion, few Japan­ese inven­tions have been as impor­tant.

Hence its promi­nent inclu­sion in Japa­nol­o­gist Matt Alt’s recent book Pure Inven­tion: How Japan’s Pop Cul­ture Con­quered the World. As Alt tells its sto­ry, the karaoke machine emerged out of San­nomiya, Kobe’s red-light dis­trict, which might seem an unlike­ly birth­place — until you con­sid­er its “some four thou­sand drink­ing estab­lish­ments crammed into a clus­ter of streets and alleys just a kilo­me­ter in radius.”

In these bars Inoue worked as a hiki-katari, a kind of free­lance musi­cian who spe­cial­ized in “sing-alongs, retun­ing their performances­ on­ the ­fly­ to ­match ­the­ singing­ abil­i­ties ­and­ sobri­ety ­levels­ of pay­ing cus­tomers.” This was karaoke (the Japan­ese term means, lit­er­al­ly, “emp­ty orches­tra”) before karaoke as we know it. Inoue had mas­tered its rig­ors to such an extent that he became known as “Dr. Sing-along,” and the sheer demand for his ser­vices inspired him to cre­ate a kind of auto­mat­ic replace­ment he could send to extra gigs. The 8 Juke, as he called it, amount­ed to an 8‑track car stereo con­nect­ed to a micro­phone, reverb box, and coin slot. Pre-loaded with instru­men­tal cov­ers of bar-goers’ favorite songs, the 8 Jukes Inoue made soon start­ed tak­ing in more coins than they could han­dle.

“When I made the first Juke 8s, a broth­er-in-law sug­gest­ed I take out a patent,” Inoue said in a 2013 inter­view. “But at the time, I didn’t think any­thing would come of it.” Hav­ing assem­bled his inven­tion from off-the-shelf com­po­nents, he did­n’t think there was any­thing patentable about it, and unknown to him, at least one sim­i­lar device had already been built else­where in Japan. But what Inoue invent­ed, as Alt puts it, was “the total pack­age of hard­ware and cus­tom soft­ware that allowed karaoke to grow from a local fad into an enor­mous glob­al busi­ness.” Had it been patent­ed, says Inoue him­self, “I don’t think karaoke would have grown like it did.” Would it have grown to have, as Alt puts  it, “profound­ effects­ on­ the­ fantasy­ lives­ of­ Japanese­ and­ West­ern­ers ­both”? And would Inoue have found him­self onstage more than 30 years lat­er at the Ig Nobels, lead­ing a crowd of Amer­i­cans in a round of “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing”?

via Messy Nessy

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Author Rob Sheffield Picks Karaoke Songs for Famous Authors: Imag­ine Wal­lace Stevens Singing the Vel­vet Underground’s “Sun­day Morn­ing”

Japan­ese Bud­dhist Monk Cov­ers Ramones’ “Teenage Lobot­o­my,” “Queen’s “We Will Rock You,” Bea­t­les’ “Yel­low Sub­ma­rine” & More

The 10 Com­mand­ments of Chindōgu, the Japan­ese Art of Cre­at­ing Unusu­al­ly Use­less Inven­tions

This Man Flew to Japan to Sing ABBA’s “Mam­ma Mia” in a Big Cold Riv­er

Karaoke-Style, Stephen Col­bert Sings and Struts to The Rolling Stones’ “Brown Sug­ar”

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 or on Face­book.

Art Historian Provides Hilarious & Surprisingly Efficient Art History Lessons on TikTok

@_theiconoclassIf youse come at me again for my Aus­tralian pro­nun­ci­a­tion I swear 😂 #arthis­to­ry #arthis­to­ry­tik­tok #baroque♬ orig­i­nal sound — AyseD­eniz

Art His­to­ri­an Mary McGillivray believes art appre­ci­a­tion is an acquired skill. Her Tik­Tok project, The Icon­o­class, is bring­ing those lack­ing for­mal art his­to­ry edu­ca­tion up to speed.

The 25-year-old Aus­tralian’s pithy obser­va­tions dou­ble as sur­pris­ing­ly stur­dy mnemon­ics, use­ful for nav­i­gat­ing world class col­lec­tions both live and online.

Some high­lights from her whirl­wind guide to the Baroque peri­od, above:

If it looks like the chaos after black­out where every­one is stum­bling around in the dark under one soli­tary emer­gency light, it’s a Car­avag­gio.

If there’s at least one per­son look­ing to the cam­era like they’re on The Office, it’s a Velázquez.

If there’s a room with some nice fur­ni­ture, a win­dow, and some women just going about their every­day busi­ness, it’s a Ver­meer.

Rather than the tra­di­tion­al chrono­log­i­cal pro­gres­sion, McGillivray mix­es and match­es, often in response to com­ments and Patre­on requests.

When a com­menter on the Baroque Tik­Tok took umbrage that she referred to Artemisia Gen­tileschi by first name only, McGillivray fol­lowed up with an edu­ca­tion­al video explain­ing the con­ven­tion from the 17th-cen­tu­ry per­spec­tive.

@_theiconoclassReply to @rajendzzz her dad was hot, com­ment if you agree #baroque #artemisia #arthis­to­ryclass♬ Guilty Love — Lady­hawke & Broods

At the urg­ing of a Patre­on sub­scriber, she leaps across four cen­turies to dis­cov­er an unex­pect­ed kin­ship between Cubism and Renais­sance painters, using George Braque’s Man with a Gui­tar and San­dro Botticelli’s Four Scenes from the Ear­ly Life of Saint Zeno­bius. One is attempt­ing to escape the shack­les of per­spec­tive by show­ing sur­faces not vis­i­ble when regard­ing a sub­ject from a sin­gle point. The oth­er is using a sin­gle space to depict mul­ti­ple moments in a subject’s life simul­ta­ne­ous­ly.

@_theiconoclass#arthis­to­ry #arthis­to­ry­tik­tok #renais­sance #cubism #medievaltik­tok♬ orig­i­nal sound — Fin­ian Hack­ett

McGillivray is will­ing to be seen learn­ing along with her fol­low­ers. She’s open about the fact that she prefers Giot­to and Fra Angeli­co to con­tem­po­rary art (as per­haps befits an art his­to­ri­an whose face is more 1305 than 2021). Artist Dominic White’s wear­able, envi­ron­men­tal sculp­ture Hood­ie Empa­thy Suit does­n’t do much for her until a con­ver­sa­tion with the exhibit­ing gallery’s direc­tor helps ori­ent her to White’s objec­tives.

@_theiconoclassWant to see me tack­le more con­tem­po­rary art? Big thanks to @mprg_vic ❤️🪶#arthis­to­ry­tik­tok #arthis­to­ry #con­tem­po­rar­yart #art­gallery♬ orig­i­nal sound — Mary McGillivray

She tips her hand in an inter­view with Pedes­tri­an TV:

I’m not very inter­est­ed in decid­ing what is art and what isn’t. The whole “what is art” ques­tion has nev­er been very impor­tant to me. The ques­tions I pre­fer to ask are: Why was this image made?

She rec­om­mends art crit­ic John Berg­er’s 1972 four-part series Ways of See­ing to fans eager to expand beyond the Icon­o­class:

It’s got all the things you would expect from a 1970s BBC pro­duc­tion – wide col­lared shirts, long hair, smok­ing on tele­vi­sion – plus some of the most influ­en­tial insights into how we look at art and also how we look at the world around us.

Watch Mary McGillivray’s The Icon­o­class here. Sup­port her Patre­on here.

@_theiconoclassWant a part two? 😏😘 #arthis­to­ry­tik­tok #arthis­to­ry­ma­jor #learnon­tik­tok♬ Rasputin (Sin­gle Ver­sion) — Boney M.

via Bored Pan­da

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Free Art & Art His­to­ry Cours­es

One Minute Art His­to­ry: Cen­turies of Artis­tic Styles Get Packed Into a Short Exper­i­men­tal Ani­ma­tion

An Intro­duc­tion to 100 Impor­tant Paint­ings with Videos Cre­at­ed by Smarthis­to­ry

Steve Mar­tin on How to Look at Abstract Art

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her June 7 for a Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain: The Peri­od­i­cal Cica­da, a free vir­tu­al vari­ety hon­or­ing the 17-Year Cicadas of Brood X. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Leonardo da Vinci Designs the Ideal City: See 3D Models of His Radical Design

Le Cor­busier, Frank Lloyd WrightRay Brad­bury: they and oth­er 20th-cen­tu­ry nota­bles all gave seri­ous thought to the ide­al city, what it would include and what it would exclude. To that extent we could describe them, in 21st-cen­tu­ry par­lance, as urban­ists. But the roots of the dis­ci­pline — or area of research, or pro­fes­sion, or obses­sion — we call urban­ism run all the way back to the 15th cen­tu­ry. At that time, ear­ly in the Euro­pean Renais­sance, thinkers were recon­sid­er­ing a host of con­di­tions tak­en for grant­ed in the medieval peri­od, from man’s place in the uni­verse (and indeed the uni­verse itself) to the dis­pos­al of his garbage. Few of these fig­ures thought as far ahead, or across as many fields as Leonar­do da Vin­ci.

In addi­tion to his accom­plish­ments in art, sci­ence, engi­neer­ing, and archi­tec­ture, the quin­tes­sen­tial “Renais­sance man” also tried his hand at urban­ism. More specif­i­cal­ly, he includ­ed in his note­books designs for what he saw as an ide­al city. “Leonar­do was 30 when he moved to Milan in around 1482,” writes Engi­neer­ing and Tech­nol­o­gy’s Hilary Clarke.

“The city he found was a crowd­ed medieval war­ren of build­ings, with no san­i­ta­tion. Soon after the young painter had arrived, it was hit by an out­break of the bubon­ic plague that killed 50,000 peo­ple — more than a third of the city’s pop­u­la­tion at the time.” This could well have prompt­ed him to draw up his plan, which dates between 1487 and 1490, for a clean­er and more effi­cient urban envi­ron­ment.

While it would­n’t have been par­tic­u­lar­ly hard to envi­sion a less dirty and dis­or­dered set­ting than the late medieval Euro­pean city, Leonar­do, true to form, per­formed a thor­ough­go­ing act of reimag­i­na­tion. “Draw­ing on the knowl­edge he had gained from study­ing Milan’s canals, Leonar­do want­ed to use water to con­nect the city like a cir­cu­la­to­ry sys­tem,” writes Clarke, who adds that Leonar­do was also study­ing human anato­my at the time. “His ide­al town-plan­ning prin­ci­ple was to have a mul­ti-tiered city, which also includ­ed an under­ground water­way to flush away efflu­ent.” The top tier would have all the hous­es, squares and oth­er pub­lic build­ings; “the bot­tom tier was for the poor, goods and traf­fic — hors­es and carts — and ran on the same lev­el as the canals and basins, so wag­ons could be eas­i­ly offloaded.”

Though its ambi­tion would have seemed fan­tas­ti­cal in the 15th cen­tu­ry, Leonar­do’s city plan every­where mar­shals his con­sid­er­able engi­neer­ing knowl­edge to address prac­ti­cal prob­lems. He had a real loca­tion in mind — along the Tici­no Riv­er, which runs through mod­ern-day Italy and Switzer­land — and planned details right down to the spi­ral stair­cas­es in every build­ing. He insist­ed on spi­rals, Clarke notes, “because they lacked cor­ners, mak­ing it hard­er for men to uri­nate,” but they also add an ele­gance to his vision of the ver­ti­cal city, a notion that strikes us as obvi­ous today but was unknown then. Of course, Leonar­do was a man ahead of his time, and the 3D-ren­dered and phys­i­cal mod­els of his ide­al city in these videos from the Ide­al Spaces Work­ing Group and Italy’s Museo Nazionale del­la Scien­za e del­la Tec­nolo­gia Leonar­do da Vin­ci make one won­der if his plan would­n’t look both allur­ing and impos­si­bly rad­i­cal to urban­ists even today.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Leonar­do da Vin­ci Drew an Accu­rate Satel­lite Map of an Ital­ian City (1502)

The Medieval City Plan Gen­er­a­tor: A Fun Way to Cre­ate Your Own Imag­i­nary Medieval Cities

Frank Lloyd Wright Designs an Urban Utopia: See His Hand-Drawn Sketch­es of Broad­acre City (1932)

Denmark’s Utopi­an Gar­den City Built Entire­ly in Cir­cles: See Astound­ing Aer­i­al Views of Brønd­by Have­by

The Utopi­an, Social­ist Designs of Sovi­et Cities

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 or on Face­book.

Hear the Earliest Recorded Customer Complaint Letter: From Ancient Sumeria 1750 BC

Three-thou­sand, sev­en-hun­dred, and sev­en­ty-one years ago, in the city of Dil­mun, near Ur in Mesopotamia, there was a mer­chant named Ea-nasir. His busi­ness was in sell­ing met­al ingots that he pur­chased in the Per­sian Gulf. Was he a good mer­chant? Not accord­ing to one of his cus­tomers, Nan­ni. If Yelp had exist­ed back in 1750 BC, Nan­ni would def­i­nite­ly have giv­en Ea-nasir a one-star review.

We know this because Nanni’s com­plaint about Ea-nasir, writ­ten in Akka­di­an cuneiform, still exists. The tiny 4.5x2x1 inch tablet is cur­rent­ly on dis­play at the British Muse­um, and was dis­cov­ered by archae­ol­o­gist Sir Leonard Woo­ley in his 1920s exca­va­tion of Ur.

In the video above, you can hear Nanni’s com­plaint come to life.

Ea-nasir had agreed to sell cop­per ingots to Nan­ni, who sent a ser­vant with some mon­ey to pick them up. Not only were the ingots of low qual­i­ty, but Ea-nasir was rude to the ser­vant, giv­ing him the ol’ “take it or leave it” treat­ment. And not only that, but the ser­vant had to trav­el through ene­my ter­ri­to­ry. And for all the things Nanni’s done for Ea-nasir! (You can just imag­ine Nan­ni pick­ing out a fresh clay tablet and get­ting down to some furi­ous cuneiformin’.)

This read­ing brings out some of the haughty anger from Nanni’s com­plaint, but I won­der if it is being too nice. Maybe Voic­es of the Past should hire a New York cab­bie to have a go the next time they find some sev­er­al-mil­len­nia-old ephemera from Ea-nasir’s for­mer busi­ness quar­ters. We don’t know if Nan­ni ever set­tled his dis­pute, but appar­ent­ly he wasn’t the only one.

The room that Sir Leonard exca­vat­ed con­tained many com­plaints from many cus­tomers, includ­ing sev­er­al back and forths from frus­trat­ed peo­ple all over Mesopotamia. Accord­ing to this Forbes arti­cle, Ea-nasir did have a legit prof­itable busi­ness once, but as his debt grew, the cred­i­tors came call­ing, and he began to stiff peo­ple. What makes Nanni’s let­ter stand out is that he used both the front and back of the tablet to write his with­er­ing assess­ment. We’ve all seen those kind of let­ters.

The full text from Nan­ni reads:

Now, when you had come, you spoke say­ing thus: ‘I will give good ingots to Gim­il-Sin’; this you said to me when you had come, but you have not done it. You have offered bad ingots to my mes­sen­ger, say­ing ‘If you will take it, take it; if you will not take it, go away.’ Who am I that you are treat­ing me in this man­ner — treat­ing me with such con­tempt? and that between gen­tle­men such as we are. I have writ­ten to you to receive my mon­ey, but you have neglect­ed [to return] it. Repeat­ed­ly you have made them [mes­sen­gers] return to me emp­ty-hand­ed through for­eign coun­try. Who is there amongst the Dil­mun traders who has act­ed against me in this way? You have treat­ed my mes­sen­ger with con­tempt. And fur­ther with regard to the sil­ver that you have tak­en with you from my house you make this dis­cus­sion. And on your behalf I gave 18 tal­ents of cop­per to the palace, and Sumi-abum also gave 18 tal­ents of cop­per, apart from the fact that we issued the sealed doc­u­ment to the tem­ple of Samas. With regard to that cop­per, as you have treat­ed me, you have held back my mon­ey in a for­eign ter­ri­to­ry, although you are oblig­at­ed to hand it over to me intact. You will learn that here in Ur I will not accept from you cop­per that is not good. In my house, I will choose and take the ingots one by one. Because you have treat­ed me with con­tempt, I shall exer­cise against you my right of select­ing the cop­per.

It’s kind of com­fort­ing in its own weird way, know­ing that find­ing a good busi­ness you can trust has been an eter­nal quest, whether you’re try­ing to get a refund from eBay or look­ing at some low qual­i­ty ingots and deal­ing with a very annoyed ser­vant.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty Pro­fes­sor Cooks 4000-Year-Old Recipes from Ancient Mesopotamia, and Lets You See How They Turned Out

Hear The Epic of Gil­gamesh Read in the Orig­i­nal Akka­di­an and Enjoy the Sounds of Mesopotamia

Dic­tio­nary of the Old­est Writ­ten Language–It Took 90 Years to Com­plete, and It’s Now Free Online

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the Notes from the Shed pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, and/or watch his films here.

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