Why The Founding Fathers Were Obsessed with This Muslim Ruler

The writ­ings of the Found­ing Fathers of the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca include many a ref­er­ence to the likes of Cicero, Mon­tesquieu, and John Locke. That the names Hyder Ali and his son Tipu Sul­tan nev­er appear may not sound like much of a sur­prise, even if you hap­pen to know that they ruled the Indi­an region of Mysore, now offi­cial­ly called Mysu­ru, at the time. But his­to­ry records that more than a few Amer­i­cans, includ­ing Thomas Jef­fer­son and John Adams, fol­lowed with great inter­est the strug­gles of that father and son against the British. Those strug­gles took place from the mid-eigh­teenth to the ear­ly nine­teenth cen­tu­ry — a time when the Amer­i­can colonies, of course, had their own con­flict brew­ing with the moth­er­land.

Hyder became the Sul­tan of Mysore in the sev­en­teen-six­ties: “a dan­ger­ous time to come to pow­er in South Asia,” writes Blake Smith at Aeon, giv­en that “the British East India Com­pa­ny was expand­ing its pow­er through­out the Sub­con­ti­nent.” Ally­ing with France, much like the rebelling Amer­i­can colonists, Hyder “held off the British advance for anoth­er two decades, dying in 1782, just a year before the US tri­umphed in its own rebel­lion against Britain.”

Amer­i­ca’s fas­ci­na­tion with Hyder and his suc­ces­sor Tipu, who died in bat­tle with the East India Com­pa­ny in 1799, remained for some time. “Mysore’s rulers became famil­iar ref­er­ences in Amer­i­can news­pa­pers, poems and every­day con­ver­sa­tion. Yet, with­in a gen­er­a­tion, Amer­i­cans lost their sense of sol­i­dar­i­ty with the Indi­an Sub­con­ti­nent.”

You can learn more about this episode of his­to­ry from the PBS Ori­gins video above. It gets into detail about the life of Tipu, known as “the Tiger of Mysore,” a nick­name the man him­self did much to jus­ti­fy. He even “com­mis­sioned a near­ly life-sized automa­ton of a tiger eat­ing a British sol­dier,” says the video’s host, which “includ­ed a crank attached to a mech­a­nism inside the tiger’s body that simul­ta­ne­ous­ly lift­ed the dying man’s arm and pro­duced nois­es imi­tat­ing his final cries.” Though he and his army con­tin­ued to fight in that spir­it, Mysore’s sit­u­a­tion became unten­able after both the U.S. and France made their peace with Britain. Despite the recen­cy of the hos­til­i­ties, the new lib­er­at­ed colony soon became some­thing of an ally in the main­te­nance of the British Empire’s remain­ing ter­ri­to­ries, India includ­ed — and would ulti­mate­ly learn a les­son or two of its own about the glob­al exten­sion of pow­er.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Amer­i­can Rev­o­lu­tion: A Free Course from Yale Uni­ver­si­ty

The Old­est Known Pho­tographs of India (1863–1870)

India on Film, 1899–1947: An Archive of 90 His­toric Films Now Online]

Watch the Rise and Fall of the British Empire in an Ani­mat­ed Time-Lapse Map ( 519 A.D. to 2014 A.D.)

200-Year-Old Robots That Play Music, Shoot Arrows & Even Write Poems: Watch Automa­tons in Action

Bertrand Russell’s Improb­a­ble Appear­ance in a Bol­ly­wood Film (1967)

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

How a Volcanic Eruption Helped Unleash the Black Death in Europe in 1347

The flap of a but­ter­fly­’s wings on one side of the world can cause a hur­ri­cane on the oth­er, or so they say. If we take it a bit too lit­er­al­ly, that old obser­va­tion may make us won­der what a hur­ri­cane can cause. Or if not a hur­ri­cane, how about anoth­er kind of large-scale nat­ur­al dis­as­ter? If new find­ings by researchers from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cam­bridge and the Leib­niz Insti­tute for the His­to­ry and Cul­ture of East­ern Europe are to be believed, a vol­cano’s erup­tion helped lead to the out­break and spread of the Black Death across Europe in the four­teenth cen­tu­ry. In the video above, British his­to­ry and envi­ron­men­tal sci­ence spe­cial­ist Paul Whitewick explains the evi­dence on a vis­it to one of the aban­doned medieval vil­lages strick­en by that plague.

As Cam­bridge’s Sarah Collins writes, “the evi­dence sug­gests that a vol­canic erup­tion — or clus­ter of erup­tions — around 1345 caused annu­al tem­per­a­tures to drop for con­sec­u­tive years due to the haze from vol­canic ash and gas­es, which in turn caused crops to fail across the Mediter­ranean region.” Des­per­ate Ital­ian city-states thus fell back on trad­ing with grain pro­duc­ers around the Black Sea. “This cli­mate-dri­ven change in long-dis­tance trade routes helped avoid famine, but in addi­tion to life-sav­ing food, the ships were car­ry­ing the dead­ly bac­teri­um that ulti­mate­ly caused the Black Death, enabling the first and dead­liest wave of the sec­ond plague pan­dem­ic to gain a foothold in Europe.”

An impor­tant clue came in the form of “infor­ma­tion con­tained in tree rings from the Span­ish Pyre­nees, where con­sec­u­tive ‘Blue Rings’ point to unusu­al­ly cold and wet sum­mers in 1345, 1346 and 1347 across much of south­ern Europe.” Records of lunar eclipses and lay­ers of sul­fur locked into ice cores dat­ing to about the same time fur­ther height­en the prob­a­bil­i­ty of vol­canic activ­i­ty. Key to tying these dis­parate pieces of evi­dence togeth­er are changes in trade routes: on a map, Whitewick traces “move­ment increas­ing along these cor­ri­dors, grain imports to the mar­itime republics of Venice and Genoa from north of the Black Sea and beyond, in 1347.” Accord­ing to writ­ten records, the Black Death came to Britain the fol­low­ing year, arriv­ing in “a coun­try already shaped by failed har­vests, weak­ened com­mu­ni­ties, and ris­ing move­ment of peo­ple and goods.”

Some com­mu­ni­ties weath­ered the plague and, in the full­ness of time, even bounced back; oth­ers, like the vil­lage amid whose remains Whitewick stands, prac­ti­cal­ly van­ished alto­geth­er. “This was a glob­al prob­lem that became very much a local one,” he says, under­scor­ing its rev­e­la­tion of the risk fac­tors present even in the ear­ly stages of what we now call glob­al­iza­tion. “A vol­canic erup­tion thou­sands of miles away altered cli­mate pat­terns, and that cli­mate reshaped har­vest and trade, and trade car­ried dis­ease. And here, in the qui­et Eng­lish fields, the con­se­quences have set­tled into the ground:” not quite as poet­ic an image as the but­ter­fly and the hur­ri­cane, grant­ed, but hard­ly less rel­e­vant to our own world for it.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

A 1665 Adver­tise­ment Promis­es a “Famous and Effec­tu­al” Cure for the Great Plague

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

How the Sur­vivors of Pom­peii Escaped Mount Vesu­vius’ Dead­ly Erup­tion: A TED-Ed Ani­ma­tion Tells the Sto­ry

The 1883 Kraka­toa Explo­sion Made the Loud­est Sound in His­to­ry — So Loud It Trav­eled Around the World Four Times

1,000 Years of Medieval Euro­pean His­to­ry in 20 Min­utes

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

1,000 Years of Medieval European History in 20 Minutes

More than a few medieval­ists object to the term “Dark Ages” as applied to the peri­od in which they spe­cial­ize. That can seem wish­ful in light of most com­par­isons between medieval times and the Renais­sance that came after­ward, or indeed, the era of the Roman Empire that came before. Con­sid­er the state of Europe as the fourth cen­tu­ry began: “The great cities of antiq­ui­ty were depop­u­lat­ed, some left in ruins,” says the nar­ra­tor of the How So video above, telling the sto­ry of the con­ti­nen­t’s polit­i­cal and lin­guis­tic frag­men­ta­tion. “The Roman trans­porta­tion sys­tem decayed, erod­ing com­mu­ni­ca­tion and long-dis­tance trade. Coins van­ished, leav­ing no eco­nom­ic sys­tem to sup­port pro­fes­sion­al armies. Lit­er­a­cy plum­met­ed, crip­pling admin­is­tra­tive sys­tems. And most notably, peace and secu­ri­ty were gone.”

But there’s plen­ty more his­to­ry to come there­after: about a mil­len­ni­um’s worth, in fact, which the video cov­ers in a mere twen­ty min­utes. Events of note in that grand sweep include Jus­tin­ian I’s attempt to expand the Byzan­tine Empire of the east; the cre­ation and spread of the Islam­ic caliphate; Charle­mag­ne’s uni­fi­ca­tion of most of west­ern Chris­ten­dom; inva­sions by Vikings, Mag­yars, and Mus­lim raiders; the rise of cas­tles and the feu­dal sys­tem that they came to sym­bol­ize; the cre­ation of the Holy Roman Empire; the flour­ish­ing of cities and uni­ver­si­ties; and the Nor­man Con­quest of Eng­land, as seen on the Bayeux Tapes­try. There’s also the unpleas­ant­ness of the Black Death, which swept through Europe from the mid-four­teenth to the ear­ly six­teenth cen­tu­ry — but as with oth­er medieval dis­as­ters, the plague held the seeds of a civ­i­liza­tion­al rebirth.

“For some sur­vivors, the con­se­quences of the plague were not so grim,” says the nar­ra­tor. “As the pop­u­la­tion dropped, land became wide­ly avail­able, and the demand for labor rose dra­mat­i­cal­ly.” Peas­ants demand­ed improved con­di­tions and revolt­ed against the rulers who refused; ulti­mate­ly, they “gained new free­doms and oppor­tu­ni­ties, and work­ers enjoyed high­er wages. Cre­ativ­i­ty and inno­va­tion in sci­ence and cul­ture fol­lowed, cre­at­ing the envi­ron­ment in which Euro­pean schol­ars “defined the past mil­len­ni­um as ‘Dark Ages,’ and so posi­tioned them­selves as the tran­si­tion between the medieval and mod­ern world.” Some liken the cur­rent state of the world to the decline of the Roman Empire; if they’re cor­rect, maybe we have anoth­er Renais­sance to look for­ward to about 40 gen­er­a­tions down the road.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Free Yale Course on Medieval His­to­ry: 700 Years in 22 Lec­tures

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

How Every­thing in a Medieval Cas­tle Worked, from Its Moats to Its Dun­geons

What Sex Was Like in Medieval Times?: His­to­ri­ans Look at How Peo­ple Got It On in the Dark Ages

How the Byzan­tine Empire Rose, Fell, and Cre­at­ed the Glo­ri­ous Hagia Sophia: A His­to­ry in Ten Ani­mat­ed Min­utes

Advice for Time Trav­el­ing to Medieval Europe: How to Stay Healthy & Safe, and Avoid­ing Charges of Witch­craft

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

 

Confidence: The Cartoon That Helped America Get Through the Great Depression (1933)

No more bum­min’, let’s all get to work…

Actu­al­ly, hold up a sec. We’ll all be hap­pi­er and more pro­duc­tive if we take a moment to start our work day with Con­fi­dence, a pep­py musi­cal ani­ma­tion from 1933, star­ring new­ly elect­ed Pres­i­dent Franklin Delano Roo­sevelt and Mick­ey Mouse pre­cur­sor, Oswald the Lucky Rab­bit. 

Few Americans—today we’d refer to them as the 1%—could escape the pri­va­tions of the Great Depres­sion. The movies were one indus­try that con­tin­ued to thrive through this dark peri­od, pre­cise­ly because they offered a few hours of respite. No one went to the pic­tures to see a reflec­tion of their own lives. Gor­geous gowns, glam­orous Man­hat­tan apart­ments and roman­tic trou­ble cer­tain to be resolved in hap­py endings…remember Mia Far­row’s belea­guered wait­ress bask­ing in the Pur­ple Rose of Cairo’s reas­sur­ing glow?

Giv­en the pub­lic’s pref­er­ence for escapist fare, direc­tor Bill Nolan, the Father of Rub­ber Hose Ani­ma­tion, could have played it safe by gloss­ing over the back­sto­ry that leads Oswald to seek out advice from the Com­man­der in Chief. Instead, Nolan deliv­ered his joy­ful car­toon ani­mals into night­mare ter­ri­to­ry, the Depres­sion per­son­i­fied as a cowled Death fig­ure lay­ing waste to the land. It’s weird­ly upset­ting to see those hyper-cheer­ful vin­tage barn­yard ani­mals (and a rogue mon­key) under­go this graph­ic ener­va­tion.

Oh, for some oral history—I’d love to know how mati­nee crowds react­ed as Oswald raced scream­ing before a spin­ning ver­ti­go back­ground, seek­ing a rem­e­dy for a host of non-car­toon prob­lems. Irony is a lux­u­ry they did­n’t have.

Unsur­pris­ing­ly, the can-do spir­it so cen­tral to FDR’s New Deal quick­ly turned Oswald’s frown upside down. As pres­i­den­tial cam­paign promis­es go, this one’s unique­ly tai­lored to the demands of musi­cal com­e­dy. Wit­ness Annie, in which the 32nd pres­i­dent was again called upon to Rex Har­ri­son his way into audi­ence hearts, this time from the wheel­chair the cre­ators of Con­fi­dence did­n’t dare show, some forty years ear­li­er.

The divi­sion between enter­tain­ment and nation-lead­ing is pret­ty per­me­able these days, too.

Accord­ing­ly, what real­ly sets this car­toon apart for me is the use of a Pres­i­den­tial­ly-sanc­tioned giant syringe as a tool to get Depres­sion-era Amer­i­ca back on its feet. A fig­u­ra­tive injec­tion of con­fi­dence is all well and good, but noth­ing gets the barn­yard back on its singing, danc­ing feet like a lib­er­al dose, deliv­ered in the most lit­er­al way.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Sim­ple, Down-to-Earth Christ­mas Card from the Great Depres­sion (1933)

Pri­vate Sna­fu: The World War II Pro­pa­gan­da Car­toons Cre­at­ed by Dr. Seuss, Frank Capra & Mel Blanc

Yale Presents an Archive of 170,000 Pho­tographs Doc­u­ment­ing the Great Depres­sion

Great Depres­sion Cook­ing: Get Bud­get-Mind­ed Meals from the Online Cook­ing Show Cre­at­ed by 93-Year-Old Clara Can­nuc­cia­ri

When Al Capone Opened a Soup Kitchen Dur­ing the Great Depres­sion: Anoth­er Side of the Leg­endary Mobster’s Oper­a­tion

Ayun Hal­l­i­day can’t get enough of that rub­ber style. 

Why Ancient Egyptian Honey Remains Edible After 3,000 Years

The glob­al bee pop­u­la­tion comes up in the news every now and again. Some­times we’re assured that the num­ber is sta­ble or ris­ing; more often, we’re warned about col­laps­ing colonies and the large-scale eco­log­i­cal dis­as­ter that could result. As with most high-stakes issues, it can be dif­fi­cult to know what to believe. But even if you lack the time to invest in an under­stand­ing of the sci­ence behind the com­plex con­nec­tions between api­an and human wel­fare, you can eas­i­ly come to appre­ci­ate the impor­tance of bees if you learn just how long they’ve played a role in our civ­i­liza­tion.

As Elana Spi­vack writes at History.com, “a cave paint­ing in north­east­ern Spain depict­ing a human har­vest­ing hon­ey dates back 7,500 years to the Neolith­ic peri­od, accord­ing to research pub­lished in 2021 in the jour­nal Tra­ba­jos de Pre­his­to­ria.” Just last year, a paper in the Jour­nal of the Amer­i­can Chem­i­cal Soci­ety con­firmed that bronze con­tain­ers dis­cov­ered in an under­ground shrine in a sixth-cen­tu­ry-BC Greek set­tle­ment not far from Pom­peii con­tained a residue of hon­ey. We’ve long known of hiero­glyphs from ancient Egypt that depict bees and the keep­ing there­of; “accord­ing to a 2022 paper in the jour­nal Ani­mals, the use of hon­ey­bees in the Nile Val­ley can be traced to the ear­li­est years of the Egypt­ian king­dom.”

Here in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry, most of us regard hon­ey as noth­ing more than a rel­a­tive­ly healthy sweet­en­er. In ancient Egypt, too, it was used to improve the taste of their bread and beer, but it was also put to impor­tant med­ical uses. “Because it’s so thick, rejects any kind of growth and con­tains hydro­gen per­ox­ide, it cre­ates the per­fect bar­ri­er against infec­tion for wounds,” writes Smith­son­ian’s Natasha Geil­ing. “The ancient Egyp­tians used med­i­c­i­nal hon­ey reg­u­lar­ly, mak­ing oint­ments to treat skin and eye dis­eases.” They may not have been the first to do so, giv­en that the ear­li­est known uses of hon­ey are record­ed on Sumer­ian clay tablets, but they took respect for the stuff to a whole new lev­el, describ­ing hon­ey­bees as orig­i­nat­ing from the tears of their sun god Re (for­mer­ly known in the Eng­lish-speak­ing world as Ra).

That par­tic­u­lar piece of mythol­o­gy is record­ed on some Egypt­ian papyri; oth­ers reveal how much hon­ey was rationed to work­ers, at least those employed direct­ly by the Pharaoh. In those days, the sub­stance’s gold­en col­or reflect­ed its dear­ness, and it seems that com­mon labor­ers and their fam­i­lies could go a life­time with­out ever tast­ing a spoon­ful them­selves. Today, of course, we take it for grant­ed that we can go down to the super­mar­ket and cheap­ly buy an econ­o­my-size tub of hon­ey that nev­er goes bad. But then, ancient Egypt­ian hon­ey has nev­er gone bad either: thanks to the very same chem­i­cal and bio­log­i­cal prop­er­ties that made it use­ful for heal­ing, the sealed jars of it remain the­o­ret­i­cal­ly edi­ble even after 3,000 years. Driz­zle it on some gen­uine Greek yogurt, and you’ve got a large swath of the his­to­ry of civ­i­liza­tion in break­fast form.

via Boing Boing/Smith­son­ian

Relat­ed con­tent:

Try the Old­est Known Recipe For Tooth­paste: From Ancient Egypt, Cir­ca the 4th Cen­tu­ry BC

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

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

How Sci­en­tists Recre­at­ed Ancient Egypt’s Long-Lost Pig­ment, “Egypt­ian Blue”

Behold 1,600-Year-Old Egypt­ian Socks Made with Nål­bind­ning, an Ancient Pro­to-Knit­ting Tech­nique

How Did the Egyp­tians Make Mum­mies? An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the Ancient Art of Mum­mi­fi­ca­tion

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

When Francis Bacon Shocked the Art World: Viewers Were Horrified by His Paintings, But Couldn’t Look Away

A dif­fi­cult child­hood and ado­les­cence, sat­u­rat­ed with the feel­ing of being an out­sider, may or may not con­tribute to becom­ing a great artist. Expe­ri­enc­ing the social and cul­tur­al fer­ment of Berlin and Paris in the nine­teen-twen­ties prob­a­bly would­n’t hurt one’s chances. Nor, sure­ly, would for­ma­tive expo­sure in such cities to films like Metrop­o­lis, Bat­tle­ship Potemkin, and Abel Gance’s Napoleon, as well as to the paint­ings of Pablo Picas­so. Going to art school may seem like the nat­ur­al choice for any aspir­ing artist, but there’s also some­thing to be gained from avoid­ing that aca­d­e­m­ic sys­tem entire­ly.

These, as gal­lerist-Youtu­ber James Payne tells us in the new Great Art Explained video above, are all aspects of the life that pro­duced Fran­cis Bacon. As usu­al on that series, he pro­ceeds from a sin­gle rep­re­sen­ta­tive work, in this case Study after Velázquez’s Por­trait of Pope Inno­cent X, from 1953.

If you’ve seen that paint­ing even once, you haven’t for­got­ten it, and indeed, you’ve prob­a­bly seen it again in your night­mares since. To trace the source of its trou­bling pow­er, Payne plunges into the his­to­ry of Bacon’s har­row­ing life as well as that of the Irish, Eng­lish, and Euro­pean his­tor­i­cal con­texts in which he lived — often to its dan­ger­ous, chaot­ic fullest.

Not that any art his­to­ri­an can ignore the inspi­ra­tion cit­ed right there in the paint­ing’s title. It is to that sev­en­teenth-cen­tu­ry Spaniard’s acclaimed por­trait of that head of the Catholic Church (who pro­nounced the fin­ished work “trop­po vero”) that Bacon pays twist­ed, decon­struc­tive homage. Yet despite hav­ing been to Rome, he nev­er actu­al­ly saw the orig­i­nal; that, as Payne explains, “would have meant fac­ing its pow­er direct­ly.” Instead, he worked from a small, washed-out “copy of a copy,” all the bet­ter to allow for not just rein­ven­tion, but also the incor­po­ra­tion of oth­er scraps of the rapid­ly expand­ing mass media of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry: the peri­od, despite the out-of-time qual­i­ty of so much of his art, to which Bacon so thor­ough­ly belonged.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Bril­liant­ly Night­mar­ish Art & Trou­bled Life of Painter Fran­cis Bacon

Fran­cis Bacon on The South Bank Show: A Sin­gu­lar Pro­file of the Sin­gu­lar Painter

William Bur­roughs Meets Fran­cis Bacon: See Nev­er-Broad­cast Footage (1982)

What Makes Diego Velázquez’s Las Meni­nas One of the Most Fas­ci­nat­ing Paint­ings in Art His­to­ry

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

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

Why Salvador Dalí and Luis Buñuel Made the Still-Shocking Un Chien Andalou (1929)

Under most cir­cum­stances, there’s noth­ing par­tic­u­lar­ly shock­ing about cut­ting into an eye removed from a dead ani­mal. Gra­tu­itous, maybe, and sure­ly dis­gust­ing for some, but cer­tain­ly not psy­cho­log­i­cal­ly dam­ag­ing. I remem­ber a man turn­ing up one day to my first-grade class­room and show­ing us how to dis­sect a real sheep­’s eye, which most of us found a fas­ci­nat­ing break from our usu­al spelling and math exer­cis­es. But in edu­ca­tion as in art, con­text is every­thing, and it is the con­text estab­lished by Sal­vador Dalí and Luis Buñuel that has allowed their own act of eye-slic­ing to retain its vis­cer­al impact. It occurs, of course, in their short film Un Chien Andalou, from 1929, the sub­ject of the new Nerd­writer video above.

The shot of Buñuel’s hand tak­ing a razor to the dis­em­bod­ied eye of what he lat­er said was a calf comes ear­ly in the pic­ture. What gives it its pow­er are the images that pre­cede it: Buñuel sharp­en­ing a razor and gaz­ing up at the moon, and the actress Simone Mareuil hav­ing her own eye opened up and the razor brought near. In extreme close-up, the calf’s eye obvi­ous­ly isn’t Mareuil’s, but no mat­ter.

Cin­e­ma is so often about car­ry­ing the audi­ence along with sheer momen­tum, and in any case, Un Chien Andalou is a work of sur­re­al­ism. To the extent that any com­bi­na­tion of shots makes sense, it fails on that move­men­t’s terms. Dalí and Buñuel suc­ceed­ed, pos­si­bly to a unique degree, in mak­ing a film in which noth­ing adds up. “The rule was to refuse any image that could have a ratio­nal mean­ing, or any mem­o­ry or cul­ture,” says Buñuel in a late inter­view clip includ­ed in the video.

Nerd­writer cre­ator Evan Puschak lists a few of the images that made the cut: “A crowd sur­round­ing a man pok­ing a sev­ered hand with a stick; a man drag­ging two Jesuit priests, one played by Dalí him­self, as well as two pianos laden with two decom­pos­ing, ooz­ing don­keys; a wom­an’s armpit hair sud­den­ly appear­ing over a man’s van­ished mouth.” The goal of assem­bling such grotes­queries into one dis­or­dered view­ing expe­ri­ence? “Buñuel felt that main­stream cin­e­ma, so con­cerned with re-cre­at­ing the con­ven­tions of the nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry nov­el, was trap­ping itself in the same insid­i­ous moral­i­ty and lim­it­ing its cre­ative poten­tial. He and Dalí sought to lib­er­ate the medi­um and the audi­ence, and that lib­er­a­tion was not designed to be pleas­ant.” Near­ly a cen­tu­ry on, Un Chien Andalou remains mem­o­rably trou­bling, but most of cin­e­ma still stub­born­ly refus­es to be freed.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Short Sur­re­al­ist Film That Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Cin­e­ma: Luis Buñuel & Sal­vador Dalí’s Un Chien Andalou (1929)

Two Vin­tage Films by Sal­vador Dalí and Luis Buñuel: Un Chien Andalou and L’Age d’Or

Watch Luis Buñuel’s Sur­re­al Trav­el Doc­u­men­tary A Land With­out Bread (1933)

The 10 Favorite Films of Avant-Garde Sur­re­al­ist Film­mak­er Luis Buñuel (Includ­ing His Own Col­lab­o­ra­tion with Sal­vador Dalí)

Sal­vador Dalí Goes to Hol­ly­wood & Cre­ates a Wild Dream Sequence for Alfred Hitch­cock

Film­mak­er Luis Buñuel Shows How to Make the Per­fect Dry Mar­ti­ni

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

Explosive Cats Imagined in a Strange, 16th Century Military Manual

Paw prints and feline urine stains on a medieval scribe’s man­u­script, per­haps they weren’t entire­ly out of the ordi­nary in the 15th cen­tu­ry. But cats strapped to mini-pow­der kegs, bound­ing off to burn down a town — now that’s pret­ty unusu­al.

The incen­di­ary feline fea­tured above (and else­where on this page) comes from a dig­i­tized ver­sion of an ear­ly 16th cen­tu­ry mil­i­tary man­u­al writ­ten by Franz Helm. An artillery mas­ter, Helm wrote about a broad and imag­i­na­tive set of destruc­tive ideas for siege war­fare. Although my Ger­man is some­what rusty, I got the sense that he was awful­ly fond of explod­ing sacks, bar­rels, and var­i­ous oth­er recep­ta­cles, and even­tu­al­ly decid­ed to com­bine these ideas with an unwit­ting ani­mal deliv­ery sys­tem. These ani­mals, accord­ing to Helm’s guide, would allow a com­man­der to “set fire to a cas­tle or city which you can’t get at oth­er­wise.”

runningcat1

The text was orig­i­nal­ly dig­i­tized by the Uni­ver­si­ty of Penn­syl­va­nia, and a UPenn his­to­ri­an named Mitch Fraas decid­ed to take a clos­er look at this strange explod­ing cat busi­ness. Accord­ing to Fraas, the accom­pa­ny­ing text reads:

“Cre­ate a small sack like a fire-arrow … if you would like to get at a town or cas­tle, seek to obtain a cat from that place. And bind the sack to the back of the cat, ignite it, let it glow well and there­after let the cat go, so it runs to the near­est cas­tle or town, and out of fear it thinks to hide itself where it ends up in barn hay or straw it will be ignit­ed.”

That’s the mil­i­tary strat­e­gy in a nut­shell. Seems like a great idea, apart from the fact that cats are noto­ri­ous­ly unpre­dictable. In any case, here are more illus­tra­tions of weaponized cats to round out your work week.

runningcat2

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Cats in Medieval Man­u­scripts & Paint­ings

What Peo­ple Named Their Cats in the Mid­dle Ages: Gyb, Mite, Méone, Pan­gur Bán & More

Cats Migrat­ed to Europe 7,000 Years Ear­li­er Than Once Thought

Cats in Japan­ese Wood­block Prints: How Japan’s Favorite Ani­mals Came to Star in Its Pop­u­lar Art

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