The Strange Costumes of the Plague Doctors Who Treated 17th Century Victims of the Bubonic Plague

In the 17th and 18th cen­turies, what we know of as The Age of Enlight­en­ment or ear­ly moder­ni­ty, Euro­peans tra­versed the globe and returned to pub­lish trav­el accounts that cast the natives they encoun­tered as child­like beings, des­ti­tute sav­ages, or lit­er­al mon­sters. Unable to make sense of alien lan­guages and cul­tures, they mis­took every­thing they saw.

Mean­while, the bubon­ic plague swept Europe, and plague doc­tors wan­dered towns and coun­try­side in a “fan­ci­ful-look­ing cos­tume [that] typ­i­cal­ly con­sist­ed of a head-to-toe leather or wax-can­vas gar­ment,” writes the Pub­lic Domain Review, “large crys­tal glass­es; and a long snout or bird beak, con­tain­ing aro­mat­ic spices (such as cam­phor, mint, cloves, and myrrh), dried flow­ers (such as ros­es or car­na­tions), or a vine­gar sponge.”

More­over, the plague doctor—as you can see from illus­tra­tions of this bizarre character—also car­ried with him a wand, “with which to issue instruc­tions,” one schol­ar writes, “such as order­ing dis­ease-strick­en hous­es filled with spi­ders or toads ‘to absorb the air’ and com­mand­ing the infect­ed to inhale ‘bot­tled wind’ or take urine baths, purga­tives, or stim­u­lants.” The wand was also used to force­ful­ly fend off patients.

Vis­it­ing trav­el­ers from else­where might be jus­ti­fied in think­ing the plague doc­tor rep­re­sent­ed some strange, prim­i­tive reli­gious cus­tom: per­haps a monstrous—and most­ly ineffective—exorcism rit­u­al. The “ear­ly-mod­ern haz­mat suit” is per­fect­ly rea­son­able, of course, if you under­stand the reign­ing the­o­ry of “mias­mas,” which posit­ed that dis­ease is spread through “bad air.” Not entire­ly wrong, as our cur­rent masked exis­tences show, but in the case of the plague, mias­ma the­o­ry was only very par­tial­ly explana­to­ry.

Which is to say the cos­tume wasn’t entire­ly use­less. “The ankle-length gown and herb-filled beak… would also have offered some pro­tec­tion against germs,” espe­cial­ly since its herbs were some­times lit on fire and allowed to smol­der, send­ing bil­low­ing smoke from the plague doctor’s face. (The satir­i­cal engrav­ing above from 1700 mocks this prac­tice.) “The appear­ance of one of these human-sized birds on a doorstep could only mean that death was near.”

This par­tic­u­lar design has been cred­it­ed to a French doc­tor, Charles de Lorme, said to have invent­ed it in 1619. “De Lorme thought the beak shape of the mask would give the air suf­fi­cient time to be suf­fused by the pro­tec­tive herbs before it hit the plague doc­tors’ nos­trils and lungs.” Often mis­tak­en for Medieval or Renais­sance garb, the plague doc­tor cos­tume is, in fact, a mod­ern piece of kit.

Much has been made of the bird mask, but as one skep­ti­cal his­to­ry writer has effec­tive­ly shown, there are good rea­sons to doubt the wide­spread adop­tion of the beak. It may have been a rar­i­ty; most plague doc­tors prob­a­bly wore what would look to us today like Klan robes and hoods. All the more rea­son for plague doc­tor cos­tumes to seem shock­ing once again, as a British teen dis­cov­ered when he decid­ed in May to dress the part of the clas­sic beaked fig­ure. (Res­i­dents found it “ter­ri­fy­ing” and police offered stern “words of advice.”)

No mat­ter how wide­spread the beak was his­tor­i­cal­ly, its icon­ic sta­tus as part of the plague doc­tor cos­tume remains inscribed in art and cul­ture. “The look was so icon­ic in Italy that the ‘plague doc­tor’ became a sta­ple of Ital­ian com­me­dia dell’arte and car­ni­val cel­e­bra­tions,” Erin Blake­more writes at Nation­al Geo­graph­ic. Giv­en the asso­ci­a­tions a more authen­tic cos­tume would evoke, no one seems to be clam­or­ing to replace beaked masks with point­ed hoods in rep­re­sen­ta­tions of plague doc­tors. The beak also sym­bol­i­cal­ly con­veys an impor­tant fact about plague doc­tors: they were not healers—they were most­ly wit­ness­es of death.

Few of their reme­dies had any effect. Rather, on the government’s pay­roll, plague doctors—often sec­ond or third-rate prac­ti­tion­ers attempt­ing to build a career—recorded demo­graph­ic data, wit­nessed wills, and per­formed autop­sies. They were like weird avian aliens come to observe the cus­toms of a continent’s dying pop­u­la­tion, appear­ing in what came to be wide­ly under­stood as the “cos­tume of death,” as the illus­tra­tion above puts it. See more rep­re­sen­ta­tions of the plague doc­tor cos­tume at the Pub­lic Domain Review.

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

The His­to­ry of the Plague: Every Major Epi­dem­ic in an Ani­mat­ed Map

Down­load Clas­sic Works of Plague Fic­tion: From Daniel Defoe & Mary Shel­ley, to Edgar Allan Poe

Isaac New­ton Con­ceived of His Most Ground­break­ing Ideas Dur­ing the Great Plague of 1665

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

The Wine Windows of Renaissance Florence Dispense Wine Safely Again During COVID-19

Every­thing old is new again and Tuscany’s buchette del vino—wine windows—are def­i­nite­ly rolling with the times.

As Lisa Har­vey ear­li­er report­ed in Atlas Obscu­rabuchette del vino became a thing in 1559, short­ly after Cosi­mo I de’ Medici decreed that Flo­rence-dwelling vine­yard own­ers could bypass tav­erns and wine mer­chants to sell their prod­uct direct­ly to the pub­lic. Wealthy wine fam­i­lies eager to pay less in tax­es quick­ly fig­ured out a workaround that would allow them to take advan­tage of the edict with­out requir­ing them to actu­al­ly open their palace doors to the rab­ble:

Any­one on the street could use the wood­en or met­al knock­er … and rap on a wine win­dow dur­ing its open hours. A well-respect­ed, well-paid ser­vant, called a can­ti­niere and trained in prop­er­ly pre­serv­ing wine, stood on the oth­er side. The can­ti­niere would open the lit­tle door, take the customer’s emp­ty straw-bot­tomed flask and their pay­ment, refill the bot­tle down in the can­ti­na (wine cel­lar), and hand it back out to the cus­tomer on the street.

Sev­en­ty years fur­ther on, these lit­er­al holes-in-the-walls served as a means of con­tact­less deliv­ery for post-Renais­sance Ital­ians in need of a drink as the sec­ond plague pan­dem­ic raged.

Schol­ar Francesco Rondinel­li (1589–1665) detailed some of the extra san­i­ta­tion mea­sures put in place in the ear­ly 1630s:

A met­al pay­ment col­lec­tion scoop replaced hand-to-hand exchange

Imme­di­ate vine­gar dis­in­fec­tion of all col­lect­ed coins

No exchange of emp­ty flasks brought from home

Cus­tomers who insist­ed on bring­ing their own reusable bot­tles could do self-serve refills via a met­al tube, to pro­tect the essen­tial work­er on the oth­er side of the win­dow.

Sound famil­iar?

After cen­turies of use, the win­dows died out, falling vic­tim to flood, WWII bomb­ings, fam­i­ly relo­ca­tions, and archi­tec­tur­al ren­o­va­tion.

The nov­el coro­n­avirus pan­dem­ic has def­i­nite­ly played a major role in putting wine win­dows back on the public’s radar, but Babae, a casu­al year-old restau­rant gets cred­it for being the first to reac­ti­vate a dis­used buchet­ta del vino for its intend­ed pur­pose, sell­ing glass­es of red for a sin­gle hour each day start­ing in August 2019.

Now sev­er­al oth­er authen­tic buchette have returned to ser­vice, with menus expand­ed to accom­mo­date serv­ings of ice cream and cof­fee.

Giv­en this suc­cess, per­haps they’ll take a cue from Japan’s 4.6 mil­lion vend­ing machines, and begin dis­pens­ing an even wider array of items.

They may even take a page from the past, and send some of the mon­ey they take in back out, along with food and yes—wine—to sus­tain needy mem­bers of the com­mu­ni­ty.

The Buchette del Vino Asso­ci­azi Cul­tur­ale cur­rent­ly lists 146 active and inac­tive wine win­dows in Flo­rence and the sur­round­ing regions, accom­pa­ny­ing their find­ings with pho­tos and arti­cles of his­tor­i­cal rel­e­vance.

Via Atlas Obscu­ra

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Quar­an­tined Ital­ians Send a Mes­sage to Them­selves 10 Days Ago: What They Wish They Knew Then

Ital­ians’ Night­ly Sin­ga­longs Prove That Music Soothes the Sav­age Beast of Coro­n­avirus Quar­an­tine & Self-Iso­la­tion

A Free Course from MIT Teach­es You How to Speak Ital­ian & Cook Ital­ian Food All at Once

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

The Golden Age of Berlin Comes to Life in the Classic, Avant-Garde Film, Berlin: Symphony of a Metropolis (1927)

The redis­cov­ery of Berlin began thir­ty years ago this Novem­ber, with the demo­li­tion of the wall that had long divid­ed the city’s west­ern and east­ern halves. Specif­i­cal­ly, the Berlin Wall had stood since 1961, mean­ing the younger gen­er­a­tion of West and East Berlin­ers had no mem­o­ry of their city’s being whole. In anoth­er sense, the same could be said of their par­ents’ gen­er­a­tion, who saw near­ly a third of Berlin destroyed in the Sec­ond World War. Only the most ven­er­a­ble Berlin­ers would have remem­bered the social and indus­tri­al gold­en age the undi­vid­ed city enjoyed back in the 1920s — an age exhil­a­rat­ing­ly pre­sent­ed in the film Berlin: Sym­pho­ny of a Metrop­o­lis.

An ear­ly exam­ple of the silent-era “city sym­phonies” that showed off the cap­i­tals of the world on film (sev­er­al of which you can watch here on Open Cul­ture), Berlin takes the view­er along streets and water­ways, through parks, onto trains and ele­va­tors, on roller coast­ers, and into fac­to­ries, build­ing sites, cabarets, and skies. Shot over a year and com­pressed into less than an hour, this avant-garde doc­u­men­tary cap­tures the expe­ri­ence of Berlin in the 1920s — or rather it cap­tures, in that might­i­ly indus­tri­al age, expe­ri­ence at the inter­sec­tion of human and machine. Direc­tor Walther Ruttmann “charts the move­ments of crowds of chil­dren, work­ers, swim­mers, row­ers, and so on,” writes Pop­mat­ters’ Chad­wick Jenk­ins, “but only occa­sion­al­ly focus­es on a per­son as an indi­vid­ual. More­over, many of the most strik­ing scenes in the film avoid the intru­sion of peo­ple alto­geth­er, con­cen­trat­ing instead on the oper­a­tion of mechan­i­cal devices.”

Absent explana­to­ry nar­ra­tion or title cards, the film invites a vari­ety of read­ings. Chad­wick sees it as “the defam­a­to­ry dehu­man­iza­tion of the human, the dero­ga­tion of human auton­o­my and domin­ion over a world of indif­fer­ent mat­ter, a reduc­tion of the divine spark in humankind to the sta­tus of anoth­er mere thing.” This same qual­i­ty drove away one of Ruttman­n’s key col­lab­o­ra­tors on Berlin, the writer Carl May­er. Ruttmann, for his part, described his own moti­va­tion as “the idea of mak­ing some­thing out of life, of cre­at­ing a sym­phon­ic film out of the mil­lions of ener­gies that com­prise the life of a big city.”

A pri­ma­ry inter­est in move­ment itself is per­haps to be expect­ed from a film­mak­er who had pre­vi­ous­ly dis­tin­guished him­self as an abstract ani­ma­tor. (What his lat­er work as an assis­tant to Leni Riefen­stahl on Tri­umph of the Will indi­cates is anoth­er mat­ter.) But if Berlin: Sym­pho­ny of a Metrop­o­lis “dehu­man­izes,” writes Jenk­ins, it does so as a delib­er­ate artis­tic strat­e­gy to show that “the city is more than its var­i­ous com­po­nents, includ­ing its human com­po­nents,” and to “pro­vide an insight into the emer­gent qual­i­ties that make a city what it is, beyond being a mere com­pos­ite of the ele­ments with­in its geo­graph­i­cal bound­aries,” how­ev­er those bound­aries get drawn and redrawn over time.

Berlin: Sym­pho­ny of a Metrop­o­lis will be added to our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Samuel Beck­ett Walk the Streets of Berlin Like a Boss, 1969

See Berlin Before and After World War II in Star­tling Col­or Video

Dra­mat­ic Col­or Footage Shows a Bombed-Out Berlin a Month After Germany’s WWII Defeat (1945)

Berlin Street Scenes Beau­ti­ful­ly Caught on Film (1900–1914)

Watch 1920s “City Sym­phonies” Star­ring the Great Cities of the World: From New York to Berlin to São Paulo

The First Avant Garde Ani­ma­tion: Watch Wal­ter Ruttmann’s Licht­spiel Opus 1 (1921)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Divine Decks: A Visual History of Tarot: The First Comprehensive Survey of Tarot Gets Published by Taschen

The cards of the tarot, first cre­at­ed for play around 600 years ago and used in recent cen­turies for occult div­ina­tion of truths about life, the uni­verse, and every­thing, should by all rights be noth­ing more than a his­tor­i­cal curios­i­ty today. Yet some­thing about the tarot still com­pels, even to many of us in the ever more dig­i­tal, ever more data-dri­ven 21st cen­tu­ry. Taschen, pub­lish­er of lav­ish art and pho­to books, know this: hence, as we fea­tured last year here on Open Cul­ture, prod­ucts like their box-set reis­sue of the tarot deck designed by Sal­vador Dalí. (There must be a mean­ing­ful over­lap between Taschen’s demo­graph­ic and Dalí’s fans, giv­en that the pub­lish­er more recent­ly put out the most com­plete col­lec­tion of his paint­ings between two cov­ers.)

Dalí isn’t the only artist whose inter­pre­ta­tions of the Fool, the Hiero­phant, the Lovers, the Hanged One, and the oth­er arcana have graced a tarot deck. H.R. Giger, the artist respon­si­ble for the bio­me­chan­i­cal creepi­ness of Alien, designed one in the 1990s; more recent­ly, we’ve fea­tured decks illus­trat­ed with visions inspired by the nov­els of Philip K. Dick and David Lynch’s Twin Peaks.

But all these togeth­er — even includ­ing the “Thoth deck” designed by occultist Aleis­ter Crow­ley and the Sola-Bus­ca deck, the ear­li­est known com­plete set of tarot cards — rep­re­sent only a small frac­tion of the sto­ry of tarot’s place in the past six cen­turies of civ­i­liza­tion. That sto­ry is told, and more impor­tant­ly shown, in Taschen’s new book Divine Decks: A Visu­al His­to­ry of Tarot.

The first vol­ume in Taschen’s “Library of Eso­ter­i­ca,” the book “gath­ers more than 500 cards and works of orig­i­nal art from around the world in the ulti­mate explo­ration of a cen­turies-old art form.” An image gallery on Taschen’s web site gives a small sam­pling of the range of tarot decks found with­in, includ­ing ones cre­at­ed in 1930s Eng­land, 1970s Italy, and 2010s Brook­lyn. One was intend­ed as a pro­mo­tion­al item for an Amer­i­can paper com­pa­ny in the 1960s; anoth­er, with dif­fer­ent pur­pos­es, announces itself as the “Black Pow­er Tarot.” This in addi­tion to such well-known exam­ples as Crow­ley’s Thoth deck and the ven­er­a­ble Sola-Bus­ca, both lush­ly repro­duced in its pages. And the tarot lives on, as I’m remind­ed when­ev­er I pass one of the many store­fronts here in Seoul offer­ing tarot read­ings. In any case, it’s cer­tain­ly come a long way from 15th-cen­tu­ry Europe. You can get a copy of Divine Decks: A Visu­al His­to­ry of Tarot on Taschen’s web­site.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Behold the Sola-Bus­ca Tarot Deck, the Ear­li­est Com­plete Set of Tarot Cards (1490)

H.R. Giger’s Tarot Cards: The Swiss Artist, Famous for His Design Work on Alien, Takes a Jour­ney into the Occult

The Tarot Card Deck Designed by Sal­vador Dalí

The Thoth Tarot Deck Designed by Famed Occultist Aleis­ter Crow­ley

Twin Peaks Tarot Cards Now Avail­able as 78-Card Deck

Philip K. Dick Tarot Cards: A Tarot Deck Mod­eled After the Vision­ary Sci-Fi Writer’s Inner World

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Get the Ancient Roman Look: A Hair & Makeup Video Tutorial

Remem­ber ear­ly April, when we threw our­selves into the Get­ty Chal­lenge, turn­ing our­selves into his­toric art recre­ations in lieu of climb­ing the walls?

Seems like ages ago, doesn’t it, that you wrapped a show­er cur­tain around your head and rifled through the but­ton box, rabid to make your­self into a mas­ter­piece.

While it’s not accu­rate to say we’ve col­lec­tive­ly set­tled into a new nor­mal, many of us have accept­ed that cer­tain alter­ations to our every­day lives will be pro­longed if our every­day lives are to pro­ceed.

First it was depress­ing.

Now it’s just bor­ing (with the occa­sion­al thrum of anx­i­ety).

Per­haps it’s time to shake things up a bit, and Crows Eye Pro­duc­tions’ tuto­r­i­al on achiev­ing an Ancient Roman look using mod­ern hair and beau­ty prod­ucts, above, is an excel­lent place to start.

While Crows Eye spe­cial­izes in build­ing his­tor­i­cal­ly accu­rate peri­od dress from the unmen­tion­able out, it’s worth not­ing that styl­ist Liv Free takes a few lib­er­ties, adding a bit of mas­cara and lip­stick despite a dearth of evi­dence that Roman women enhanced their lips or lash­es.

She also uses curl­ing irons, pony­tail hold­ers, and a hair donut to cre­ate a crown of ringlets and braids.

If you’re a stick­ler for authen­tic­i­ty who won’t be able to live with your­self if you’re not sewn into your hair style with a bone nee­dle, you may be bet­ter off con­sult­ing the YouTube chan­nel of hair arche­ol­o­gist Janet Stephens.

But, if your goal is mere­ly to wow your co-work­ers with a full-on Fla­vian Dynasty look dur­ing your next Zoom call, by all means grab some pale lead-free foun­da­tion, some expend­able Hot Buns, and some light blush.

Don’t wor­ry that you’ll appear too done up. Free notes that Roman women of both high and low birth were devot­ed to make­up, but in def­er­ence to their men, lim­it­ed them­selves to the nat­ur­al look.

That’s a tad anachro­nis­tic, huh?

These days, any­one who wants to remake them­selves in the image of Empress Domi­tia Long­i­na should feel free to take a crack at it, irre­spec­tive of gen­der, race, or extra hands to help with the parts of the hair­style you can can’t see in the mir­ror (or a Zoom win­dow).

Once we have mas­tered our new look, we can see about anoth­er muse­um chal­lenge. Here’s some inspi­ra­tion to get us start­ed.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How a Bal­ti­more Hair­dress­er Became a World-Renowned “Hair Archae­ol­o­gist” of Ancient Rome

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

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

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

A Virtual Tour of Ancient Rome, Circa 320 CE: Explore Stunning Recreations of The Forum, Colosseum and Other Monuments

If you’re a reg­u­lar read­er of this site, you’re like­ly famil­iar with the sim­u­la­tion hypoth­e­sis, the idea that con­scious expe­ri­ence is noth­ing more than a com­put­er pro­gram. This con­cept has many sci-fi impli­ca­tions, from Matrix-like sce­nar­ios to the rad­i­cal idea that every­thing in the uni­verse is soft­ware, run by incom­pre­hen­si­ble beings who might as well be gods. One of the more plau­si­ble ver­sions sug­gests that we are liv­ing in an “ances­tor sim­u­la­tion,” designed by future human soci­eties to recre­ate their past.

Pre­sum­ably, sim­u­lat­ed ances­tors would cre­ate their own ances­tor sim­u­la­tions and so on, ad infini­tum. There’s no way to know where on the con­tin­u­um we fall, but wher­ev­er it is, ances­tor sim­u­la­tions are on the way… maybe. They’re rudi­men­ta­ry at the moment, con­sist­ing of immer­sive video games and VR recre­ations of ancient cities.

Each iter­a­tion, how­ev­er, is bet­ter than the last, as we have seen in the case of Rome Reborn (or Rome Reborn®), a 3D dig­i­tal mod­el­ing project designed to recre­ate the city’s archi­tec­ture as it was in 320 CE, through expert ren­der­ings informed by archi­tec­tur­al his­to­ri­ans and “vir­tu­al archae­ol­o­gists” like Dr. Bernard Frisch­er, pro­fes­sor emer­i­tus at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Vir­ginia.

Back in a 2012 Open Cul­ture post, Matthias Rasch­er explained the sig­nif­i­cance of this year, “when Rome’s pop­u­la­tion had reached its peak (about one mil­lion) and the first Chris­t­ian church­es were being built.” His­to­ri­ans will also rec­og­nize 320 as fol­low­ing direct­ly on the heels of the Dona­tion of Con­stan­tine that gave the city to the Pope. We can tour the vir­tu­al streets of this rapid­ly chang­ing ancient city, though the bur­geon­ing pop­u­la­tion is nowhere in evi­dence. Noth­ing moves, grows, or changes in Rome Reborn. In that sense it is still like so many pre­vi­ous rep­re­sen­ta­tions of antiq­ui­ty.

Now in ver­sion 3.0, Rome Reborn began as a 3D mod­el in 2007, and was first owned by the Regents of the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cal­i­for­nia. It now oper­ates, under the aus­pices of the Uni­ver­si­ty of Vir­ginia, as a pri­vate com­pa­ny called Fly­over Zone. They have oth­er such dig­i­tal recre­ations in their prod­uct line, includ­ing “Athens Reborn®, Hadri­an’s Vil­la Reborn®, Baal­bek Reborn®, Egypt Reborn®, and His­tor­i­cal Games®.” Rome Reborn’s design­er, Dani­la Logi­nov, has released increas­ing­ly detailed pro­mos of the project over the years, and you can see these many videos here.

To ful­ly expe­ri­ence this sim­u­lat­ed Rome, you’ll need a Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty head­set. The third ver­sion of the 3D mod­el has been made pub­licly avail­able. “You can immerse your­self in the ancient city and even enter into some of its most famous build­ings while lis­ten­ing to the com­men­tary of high­ly qual­i­fied experts,” the Rome Reborn site promis­es. Famous build­ings one might explore include the Roman forum and the Basil­i­ca of Max­en­tius. It is not an expe­ri­ence based in real­ism. In some of the sim­u­la­tions “you can opt for a whirl­wind  fly­over tour of the city,” notes Meilan Sol­ly at Smith­son­ian.

This rough­ly two-hour tour is like noth­ing any ancient Roman ever expe­ri­enced. “Com­par­a­tive­ly, the two site vis­its place users in the driver’s seat,” Sol­ly writes, “afford­ing them free­dom to roam through recon­struct­ed streets and halls.” It’s not quite the stuff of a sim­u­lat­ed uni­verse just yet, but it may not be too far in the future before Rome Reborn® ful­ly lives up to its name. Learn more about ancient Rome, cir­ca 320 CE, in the videos here, and learn more about Rome Reborn at their offi­cial site.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Explore Ancient Athens 3D, a Dig­i­tal Recon­struc­tion of the Greek City-State at the Height of Its Influ­ence

An Ani­mat­ed Recon­struc­tion of Ancient Rome: Take A 30-Minute Stroll Through the City’s Vir­tu­al­ly-Recre­at­ed Streets

French Illus­tra­tor Revives the Byzan­tine Empire with Mag­nif­i­cent­ly Detailed Draw­ings of Its Mon­u­ments & Build­ings: Hagia Sophia, Great Palace & More

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

 

How Scholars Finally Deciphered Linear B, the Oldest Preserved Form of Ancient Greek Writing

In the ear­ly 1900s, British archae­ol­o­gist Sir Arthur Evans unearthed almost 3,000 tablets on the island of Crete, inscribed with a lan­guage he had nev­er seen before. The dis­cov­ery began a decades-long race to read the lan­guage of Europe’s old­est civ­i­liza­tion. And the final deci­pher­ing of the script, which Evans called Lin­ear B, end­ed up over­turn­ing an accept­ed his­to­ry of ancient Greek ori­gins as we learn in the TED-Ed video above script­ed by clas­sics pro­fes­sor Susan Lupack.

The tablets, found among the ruins of the ancient city of Knos­sos, belonged to a peo­ple who thrived 3,000–4,000 years ago, and whom Evans named the Minoans after the myth­i­cal king Minos, keep­er of the Mino­taur. Evans spent a good part of thir­ty years try­ing to deci­pher Lin­ear B with no suc­cess, keep­ing most of the tablets locked away. He did, how­ev­er, find two keys that allowed future researchers to trans­late the ancient lan­guage.

One of those schol­ars, Alice Kober, became inter­est­ed in the Minoan script while an under­grad­u­ate at Hunter Col­lege in New York. By the time she earned her doc­tor­ate, she had “devot­ed her­self to the deci­pher­ment of the pho­net­ic signs,” notes Rut­gers Uni­ver­si­ty. “To do so, she stud­ied archae­ol­o­gy in New Mex­i­co and at the ASCSA, acquaint­ing her­self with the scripts of as many ancient lan­guages and cul­tures as she could.”

Schol­ars around the world spec­u­lat­ed about Lin­ear B. “Was it the lost lan­guage of the Etr­uscans?” they asked. “Or an ear­ly form of Basque?” Kober her­self spent two decades try­ing to decode the script. Like Evans, she died before she could com­plete her work, but she came clos­er than any­one had before. Mean­while, archi­tect Michael Ven­tris became obsessed with Lin­ear B, even work­ing on it while he served in World War II.

Build­ing on Kober’s meth­ods and new tablets exca­vat­ed at a Greek site, Pylos, he was able to iso­late the names of ancient places. From these geo­graph­i­cal ref­er­ences, Ven­tris “unrav­eled Lin­ear B, with each word reveal­ing more clear­ly” that the lan­guage it rep­re­sent­ed was not Minoan, but Greek. It is, in fact, “the old­est pre­served form of writ­ten Greek that we know of,” the Ancient His­to­ry Ency­clo­pe­dia explains, like­ly “devised in Knoss­es (Crete), some­where around 1450 BCE when the Myce­naeans took con­trol of Knoss­es, and spread from here to Main­land Greece.”

It had pre­vi­ous­ly been assumed that the oppo­site occurred, that the Minoans had invad­ed Greece. This was Evans sup­po­si­tion, but Ven­tris’ dis­cov­ery showed, “whether by peace­ful annex­a­tion or armed inva­sion… the Minoan cul­ture was replaced, both in Crete and in main­land Greece, by the Myce­nean culture”—Greeks from the main­land who adopt­ed the Minoan script to write in Greek.

This means that the ancient Minoan lan­guage Evans hoped to find still remains a mys­tery, locked away in the labyrinth of anoth­er ancient script, called Lin­ear A. When this pri­mal lin­guis­tic ances­tor is final­ly deci­phered, it will prob­a­bly not be through decades of painstak­ing efforts by ded­i­cat­ed schol­ars, but through the sin­gu­lar break­through of a machine lan­guage.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What Did Etr­uscan Sound Like? An Ani­mat­ed Video Pro­nounces the Ancient Lan­guage That We Still Don’t Ful­ly Under­stand

Hear What the Lan­guage Spo­ken by Our Ances­tors 6,000 Years Ago Might Have Sound­ed Like: A Recon­struc­tion of the Pro­to-Indo-Euro­pean Lan­guage

Learn Latin, Old Eng­lish, San­skrit, Clas­si­cal Greek & Oth­er Ancient Lan­guages in 10 Lessons

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

Istanbul Captured in Beautiful Color Images from 1890: The Hagia Sophia, Topkaki Palace’s Imperial Gate & More

Even those who know noth­ing else about Istan­bul know that it used to be called Con­stan­tino­ple. The offi­cial renam­ing hap­pened in 1930, mean­ing that the pho­tographs you see here, all of which date from around 1890, were tak­en, strict­ly speak­ing, not in Istan­bul but Con­stan­tino­ple. But under any name, and despite all the oth­er changes that have occurred over the past 130 years, the Turk­ish metrop­o­lis on the Bospho­rus remains rec­og­niz­able as the gate­way between East and West it has been through­out record­ed his­to­ry. This is thanks in part to its old­est land­marks, above all the cathe­dral-turned-mosque-turned-muse­um known as Hagia Sophia, pic­tured above.

In the 1890s Hagia Sophia was still a mosque, and as we recent­ly post­ed here, it has just this year become one again. But as a his­tor­i­cal­ly rich struc­ture even by the stan­dards of such a his­tor­i­cal­ly rich city, it will no doubt remain Istan­bul’s prime tourist attrac­tion in the 2020s, much as it must have been in the 19th cen­tu­ry.

For those who could­n’t make the trip in those days — or who could make the trip and want­ed to bring home sou­venirs that could con­vey as rich­ly as pos­si­ble what they’d seen on their trav­els — there were Pho­tocrom prints. Though not tech­ni­cal­ly a col­or pho­tog­ra­phy process, Pho­tocrom could pro­duce fair­ly con­vinc­ing images by apply­ing col­or to black-and-white pic­tures.

Hence Pho­tocrom’s use in cap­tur­ing vis­tas from the great Euro­pean cities, includ­ing Rome, Venice, and Paris, all pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture. Pho­tocrom prints, explains the Library of Con­gress’ web site, “are ink-based images pro­duced through ‘the direct pho­to­graph­ic trans­fer of an orig­i­nal neg­a­tive onto litho and chro­mo­graph­ic print­ing plates,’ ” a tech­nol­o­gy that allowed for the mass pro­duc­tion of images that could then be wide­ly dis­trib­uted. Thanks to the ven­tures of licensees like the Detroit Pub­lish­ing Com­pa­ny, those on the oth­er side of the world could behold a city like Istan­bul — or rather Con­stan­tino­ple — through what looked “decep­tive­ly like col­or pho­tographs.”

The sub­jects of these prints, all of which you can view and down­load at the Library of Con­gress’ online archive, include not just Hagia Sophia but the foun­tain of Sul­tan Ahmed, Top­ka­ki Palace’s impe­r­i­al gate, and the Gala­ta Bridge (for which Leonar­do da Vin­ci him­self once sub­mit­ted a design). Oth­er pic­tures depict the city’s street life with views of the Eminönü bazaar as well as bar­bers and cooks ply­ing their trade in the open air. The col­ors and con­trasts of the Pho­tocrom process gives all of them a sense of real­i­ty more vivid, in a way, than real­i­ty itself — but as those who’ve been there know, the real­i­ty of Istan­bul is vivid enough for any­body.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free: Down­load Thou­sands of Ottoman-Era Pho­tographs That Have Been Dig­i­tized and Put Online

An Intro­duc­tion to Hagia Sophia: After 85 Years as a Muse­um, It’s Set to Become a Mosque Again

Rome Comes to Life in Pho­tochrom Col­or Pho­tos Tak­en in 1890: The Colos­se­um, Tre­vi Foun­tain & More

Venice in Beau­ti­ful Col­or Images 125 Years Ago: The Rial­to Bridge, St. Mark’s Basil­i­ca, Doge’s Palace & More

Paris in Beau­ti­ful Col­or Images from 1890: The Eif­fel Tow­er, Notre Dame, The Pan­théon, and More (1890)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, 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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

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