Daphne Oram Created the BBC’s First-Ever Piece of Electronic Music (1957)

To the ques­tion of who cre­at­ed elec­tron­ic music, there can be no one answer. The for­m’s emer­gence took decades, begin­ning with the ear­li­est elec­tron­ic instru­ments in the late 19th cen­tu­ry, devel­op­ing toward the first music pro­duced sole­ly from elec­tron­ic sources in the ear­ly 1950s, and arriv­ing at such artis­tic des­ti­na­tions as Wendy Car­los’ 1968 album Switched-On Bach. Dri­ving this evo­lu­tion­ary process were artists of a vari­ety of nation­al­i­ties and musi­cal sen­si­bil­i­ties, a group includ­ing sev­er­al espe­cial­ly unig­nor­able fig­ures. Take, for instance, Daphne Oram, the com­pos­er and co-founder of BBC’s sto­ried Radio­phon­ic Work­shop who cre­at­ed the very first piece of elec­tron­ic music ever com­mis­sioned by the net­work.

Oram com­posed that music in 1957, the year before the estab­lish­ment of the Radio­phon­ic Work­shop. She did it to score a BBC pro­duc­tion of Jean Girau­doux’s play Amphit­ry­on 38, using an elec­tron­ic sine wave oscil­la­tor, a tape recorder, and a few fil­ters — a syn­the­siz­er, in oth­er words, of her own cre­ation.

Expe­ri­ence had posi­tioned her well to design and com­pose with such a device and the process­es it demand­ed: she grew up study­ing the piano, organ, and com­po­si­tion, and as a teenag­er she’d tak­en a job as a stu­dio engi­neer at the BBC, an envi­ron­ment that gave her access to all the lat­est tech­nolo­gies for cre­at­ing and record­ing sound. Despite hav­ing reject­ed Still Point, an acoustic-elec­tron­ic piece she com­posed for turnta­bles, five micro­phones, and a “dou­ble orches­tra,” the BBC aired Amphit­ry­on 38 with her score full of “sounds unlike any ever heard before.”

That’s how Oram’s music is described in the 1950s tele­vi­sion clip above, a vis­it to the “coun­try stu­dio in Kent” where, “unlike the tra­di­tion­al com­pos­er, she uses no musi­cal instru­ments and no musi­cians.” And indeed, “she needs no con­cert hall or opera house to put on a per­for­mance: she can do it on a tape recorder.” As out­landish as Oram’s set­up might have looked to BBC view­ers at home back then, the nar­ra­tor informs them that “already, elec­tron­ic music is being used in films, tele­vi­sion, and the the­ater,” and that some peo­ple even think her col­lages of unnat­ur­al sounds will be “the music of the future.” Vin­di­cat­ing that notion is the odd famil­iar­i­ty every elec­tron­ic musi­cian today will feel when they watch Oram at work among the devices of her stu­dio, sur­round­ed as they them­selves hap­pi­ly are by those devices’ tech­no­log­i­cal descen­dants.

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via reak­tor­play­er

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Meet Four Women Who Pio­neered Elec­tron­ic Music: Daphne Oram, Lau­rie Spiegel, Éliane Radigue & Pauline Oliv­eros

Hear a 20 Hour Playlist Fea­tur­ing Record­ings by Elec­tron­ic Music Pio­neer Pauline Oliv­eros (RIP)

Two Doc­u­men­taries Intro­duce Delia Der­byshire, the Pio­neer in Elec­tron­ic Music

Hear Sev­en Hours of Women Mak­ing Elec­tron­ic Music (1938- 2014)

Hear Elec­tron­ic Lady­land, a Mix­tape Fea­tur­ing 55 Tracks from 35 Pio­neer­ing Women in Elec­tron­ic Music

Hear Glenn Gould Sing the Praise of the Moog Syn­the­siz­er and Wendy Car­los’ Switched-On Bach, the “Record of the Decade” (1968)

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 or on Face­book.

The Word “Robot” Originated in a Czech Play in 1921: Discover Karel Čapek’s Sci-Fi Play R.U.R. (a.k.a. Rossum’s Universal Robots)

When I hear the word robot, I like to imag­ine Isaac Asimov’s delight­ful­ly Yid­dish-inflect­ed Brook­ly­nese pro­nun­ci­a­tion of the word: “ro-butt,” with heavy stress on the first syl­la­ble. (A quirk shared by Futu­ra­ma’s crus­tacean Doc­tor Zoid­berg.) Asi­mov warned us that robots could be dan­ger­ous and impos­si­ble to con­trol. But he also showed young readers—in his Nor­by series of kids’ books writ­ten with his wife Janet—that robots could be hero­ic com­pan­ions, sav­ing the solar sys­tem from cos­mic supervil­lains.

The word robot con­jures all of these asso­ci­a­tions in sci­ence fic­tion: from Blade Run­ner’s repli­cants to Star Trek’s Data. We might refer to these par­tic­u­lar exam­ples as androids rather than robots, but this con­fu­sion is pre­cise­ly to the point. Our lan­guage has for­got­ten that robots start­ed in sci-fi as more human than human, before they became Asi­mov-like machines. Like the sci-fi writer’s pro­nun­ci­a­tion of robot, the word orig­i­nat­ed in East­ern Europe in 1921, the year after Asimov’s birth, in a play by Czech intel­lec­tu­al Karel Čapek called R.U.R., or “Rossum’s Uni­ver­sal Robots.”

The title refers to the cre­ations of Mr. Rossum, a Franken­stein-like inven­tor and pos­si­ble inspi­ra­tion for Metrop­o­lis’s Rot­wang (who was him­self an inspi­ra­tion for Dr. Strangelove). Čapek told the Lon­don Sat­ur­day Review after the play pre­miered that Rossum was a “typ­i­cal rep­re­sen­ta­tive of the sci­en­tif­ic mate­ri­al­ism of the last [nine­teenth] cen­tu­ry,” with a “desire to cre­ate an arti­fi­cial man—in the chem­i­cal and bio­log­i­cal, not mechan­i­cal sense.”

Rossum did not wish to play God so much as “to prove God to be unnec­es­sary and absurd.” This was but one stop on “the road to indus­tri­al pro­duc­tion.” As tech­nol­o­gy ana­lyst and Penn State pro­fes­sor John M. Jor­dan writes at the MIT Press Read­er, Čapek’s robots were not appli­ances become sen­tient, nor trusty, super­pow­ered side­kicks. They were, in fact, invent­ed to be slaves.

The robot… was a cri­tique of mech­a­niza­tion and the ways it can dehu­man­ize peo­ple. The word itself derives from the Czech word “rob­o­ta,” or forced labor, as done by serfs. Its Slav­ic lin­guis­tic root, “rab,” means “slave.” The orig­i­nal word for robots more accu­rate­ly defines androids, then, in that they were nei­ther metal­lic nor mechan­i­cal.

Jor­dan describes this his­to­ry in an excerpt from his book Robots, part of the MIT Press Essen­tial Knowl­edge Series, and a time­li­er than ever inter­ven­tion in the cul­tur­al and tech­no­log­i­cal his­to­ry of robots, who walk (and moon­walk) among us in all sorts of machine forms, if not quite yet in the sense Čapek imag­ined. But a Blade Run­ner-like sce­nario seemed inevitable to him in a soci­ety ruled by “utopi­an notions of sci­ence and tech­nol­o­gy.”

In the time he imag­ines, he says, “the prod­uct of the human brain has escaped the con­trol of human hands.” Čapek has one char­ac­ter, the robot Radius, make the point plain­ly:

The pow­er of man has fall­en. By gain­ing pos­ses­sion of the fac­to­ry we have become mas­ters of every­thing. The peri­od of mankind has passed away. A new world has arisen. … Mankind is no more. Mankind gave us too lit­tle life. We want­ed more life.

Sound famil­iar? While R.U.R. owes a “sub­stan­tial” debt to Mary Shelley’s Franken­stein, it’s also clear that Čapek con­tributed some­thing orig­i­nal to the cri­tique, a vision of a world in which “humans become more like their machines,” writes Jor­dan. “Humans and robots… are essen­tial­ly one and the same.” Beyond the sur­face fears of sci­ence and tech­nol­o­gy, the play that intro­duced the word robot to the cul­tur­al lex­i­con also intro­duced the dark­er social cri­tique in most sto­ries about them: We have rea­son to fear robots because in cre­at­ing them, we’ve recre­at­ed our­selves; then we’ve treat­ed them the way we treat each oth­er.

You can find the text of Čapek’s play in book for­mat on Ama­zon.

via Boing Boing

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Isaac Asi­mov Explains His Three Laws of Robots

Twerk­ing, Moon­walk­ing AI Robots–They’re Now Here

The Robots of Your Dystopi­an Future Are Already Here: Two Chill­ing Videos Dri­ve It All Home

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

Radical Women: Stream the Getty’s Podcast That Features Six Major 20th-Century Artists, All Female


Only recent­ly has “actor” become an accept­able gen­der-neu­tral term for per­form­ers of stage and screen.

Pri­or to that, we had “actor” and “actress,” and while there may have been some prob­lem­at­ic assump­tions con­cern­ing the type of woman who might be drawn to the pro­fes­sion, there was arguably lin­guis­tic par­i­ty between the two words.

Not so for artists.

In the not-so-dis­tant past, female artists invari­ably found them­selves referred to as “female artists.”

Not great, when male artists were referred to as (say it with me) “artists.”

The new sea­son of the Getty’s pod­cast Record­ing Artists pays trib­ute to six sig­nif­i­cant post-war artists—two Abstract Expres­sion­ists, a por­traitist, a per­for­mance artist and exper­i­men­tal musi­cian, and a print­mak­er who pro­gressed to assem­blage and col­lage works with an overt­ly social mes­sage.

Hope­ful­ly you won’t need to reach for your smelling salts upon dis­cov­er­ing that all six artists are female:

Alice Neel

Lee Kras­ner

Betye Saar

Helen Franken­thaler

Yoko Ono

and Eva Hesse

Host Helen Molesworth is also female, and up until recent­ly, served as the much admired Chief Cura­tor of LA’s Muse­um of Con­tem­po­rary Art. (Accord­ing to artist Lor­na Simp­son’s take on Molesworth’s abrupt dis­missal: “Women who have a point of view and stand by it are often pun­ished. Just because you get rid of Helen Molesworth doesn’t mean you have solved ‘the prob­lem.’)

Molesworth, who is joined by two art world guests per episode—some of them (gasp!) non-female—is the per­fect choice to con­sid­er the impact of the Rad­i­cal Women who give this sea­son its sub­ti­tle.

We also hear from the artists them­selves, in excepts from taped ’60s and ’70s-era inter­views with his­to­ri­ans Cindy Nemser and Bar­bara Rose.

Their can­did remarks give Molesworth and her guests a lot to con­sid­er, from the dif­fi­cul­ties of main­tain­ing a con­sis­tent artis­tic prac­tice after one becomes a moth­er to racial dis­crim­i­na­tion. A lot of atten­tion is paid to his­tor­i­cal con­text, even when it’s warts and all.

The late Alice Neel, a white artist best remem­bered for her por­traits of her black and brown East Harlem neigh­bors and friends, cracks wise about butch les­bians in Green­wich Vil­lage, prompt­ing Molesworth to remark that she thinks she—or any artist of her acquaintance—could have “eas­i­ly” swayed Neel to can the homo­pho­bic remarks.

It’s also pos­si­ble that Neel, who died in 1984, would have kept step with the times and made the nec­es­sary cor­rec­tion unprompt­ed, were she still with us today.


A cou­ple of the sub­jects, Yoko Ono and Betye Saar, are alive …and active­ly cre­at­ing art, though it’s their past work that seems to be the source of great­est fas­ci­na­tion.

When New York City’s Muse­um of Mod­ern Art reopened its doors fol­low­ing a major phys­i­cal and philo­soph­i­cal reboot, vis­i­tors were treat­ed to The Leg­ends of Black Girl’s Win­dow, an exhi­bi­tion of the 94-year-old Saar’s work from the ‘60s and ‘70s. New York­er crit­ic Doreen St. Félix bemoaned the “absence of explic­it­ly black-fem­i­nist works,” par­tic­u­lar­ly The Lib­er­a­tion of Aunt Jemi­ma, a mixed media assem­blage, Molesworth dis­cuss­es at length in the pod­cast episode ded­i­cat­ed to Saar.

MoMA also played host to a mas­sive exhi­bi­tion of Ono’s ear­ly work in 2015, prompt­ing the New York Times crit­ic Hol­land Cot­ter to pro­nounce her “imag­i­na­tive, tough-mind­ed and still under­es­ti­mat­ed.”

This is a far cry bet­ter than New York Times crit­ic Hilton Kramer’s dis­missal of Neel’s 1974 ret­ro­spec­tive at the Whit­ney, when the artist was 74 years old:

… the Whit­ney, which can usu­al­ly be count­ed on to do the wrong thing, devot­ed a solo exhi­bi­tion to Alice Neel, whose paint­ings (we can be rea­son­ably cer­tain) would nev­er have been accord­ed that hon­or had they been pro­duced by a man. The pol­i­tics of the sit­u­a­tion required that a woman be giv­en an exhi­bi­tion, and Alice Neel’s paint­ing was no doubt judged to be suf­fi­cient­ly bizarre, not to say inept, to qual­i­fy as some­thing ‘far out.’”

Twen­ty six years lat­er, his opin­ion of Neel’s tal­ent had not mel­lowed, though he had the polit­i­cal sense to dial down the misog­y­ny in his scathing Observ­er review of Neel’s third show at the Whit­ney…or did he? In cit­ing cura­tor Ann Temkin’s obser­va­tion that Neel paint­ed “with the eye of a car­i­ca­tur­ist” he makes sure to note that Neel’s sub­ject Annie Sprin­kle, “the porn star who became a per­for­mance artist, is her­self a car­i­ca­ture, no mock­ery was need­ed.”

One has to won­der if he would have described the artist’s nude self-por­trait at the age of 80 as that of “a geri­atric ruin” had the artist been a man.

Lis­ten to all six episodes of Record­ing Artists: Rad­i­cal Women and see exam­ples of each subject’s work here.

And while nei­ther Saar nor Ono added any cur­rent com­men­tary to the pod­cast, we encour­age you to check out the inter­views below in which they dis­cuss their recent work in addi­tion to reflect­ing on their long artis­tic careers:

“‘It’s About Time!’ Betye Saar’s Long Climb to the Sum­mit” (The New York Times, 2019)

“The Big Read – Yoko Ono: Imag­ine The Future” (NME, 2018)

via Hyper­al­ler­gic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Space of Their Own, a New Online Data­base, Will Fea­ture Works by 600+ Over­looked Female Artists from the 15th-19th Cen­turies

Women Who Draw: Explore an Open Direc­to­ry That Show­cas­es the Work of 5,000+ Female Illus­tra­tors

A New Archive Tran­scribes and Puts Online the Diaries & Note­books of Women Artists, Art His­to­ri­ans, Crit­ics and Deal­ers

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC on Mon­day, Feb­ru­ary 3 when her month­ly book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain cel­e­brates New York: The Nation’s Metrop­o­lis (1921). Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Take an Aerial Tour of Medieval Paris

Paris is named after the Parisii, a tribe of Celts who set­tled on a very strate­gic island in the mid­dle of the Seine some­time around 250 BC. With a wall and two bridges in and out, the set­tle­ment grew and–though con­quered by Romans, and threat­ened by all sorts includ­ing Atti­la the Hun–it evolved into the city of romance and rev­o­lu­tion.

This fas­ci­nat­ing fly-through of Paris cir­ca 1550 AD shows a city in tran­si­tion. Still very much a medieval town in cer­tain respects, it already has many of the land­marks tourists flock to even now.

It begins just out­side the abbey of Saint-Ger­main-des-Prés, found­ed in the 6th Cen­tu­ry, and goes down the Seine towards the Palais de la Cité, and under the Pont Saint-Michel. Hous­es were built along the bridges like this until the 18th and 19th cen­turies.

There’s time to linger on Notre Dame cathe­dral, and to note that the famed flèche, the spire that was lost in 2019’s fire, had yet to be built. (There is debate in the com­ments about whether the spire in the video is his­tor­i­cal­ly inac­cu­rate, whether there was any spire at that time, or whether the spire depict­ed is the cor­rect one.) Anoth­er cir­cle of the Palais and past Sainte-Chapelle until a street lev­el diver­sion into the bustling Right Bank along the Pont aux Meu­niers, a bridge that no longer exists (it col­lapsed in 1596, was rebuilt, and dis­ap­peared one final time in a 1621 fire).

The Renais­sance was just around the cor­ner, and this glimpse of Paris on the cusp of urban­iza­tion is fas­ci­nat­ing in its CGI-gen­er­at­ed fin de siè­cle (to bor­row a phrase).

The city has always been evolving–for those inter­est­ed, there is a longer 3‑D tour of Paris through its his­to­ry. While this Mid­dle Ages excur­sion con­tains some famil­iar archi­tec­ture, the Roman years (when Paris was known as Lute­tia) fea­ture many large struc­tures that sim­ply do not exist any more. It is yet anoth­er reminder that noth­ing lasts for­ev­er, not even build­ings made of the finest stone.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Pris­tine Footage Lets You Revis­it Life in Paris in the 1890s: Watch Footage Shot by the Lumière Broth­ers

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

A Vir­tu­al Time-Lapse Recre­ation of the Build­ing of Notre Dame (1160)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the artist inter­view-based FunkZone Pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

Why the Soviets Doctored Their Most Iconic World War II Victory Photo, “Raising a Flag Over the Reichstag”

No pho­to­graph sym­bol­izes Amer­i­can vic­to­ry more rec­og­niz­ably than Joe Rosen­thal’s Pulitzer Prize-win­ning Rais­ing the Flag on Iwo Jima. Tak­en on Feb­ru­ary 23, 1945, it shows six U.S. Marines rais­ing their coun­try’s flag dur­ing the bat­tle — a bloody one even by the stan­dards of the Sec­ond World War — for con­trol of that Japan­ese island. The Sovi­et Union had an equiv­a­lent image: Yevge­ny Khaldei’s Rais­ing a Flag over the Reich­stag, which shows a Russ­ian sol­dier rais­ing the Sovi­et flag on the roof of the for­mer Ger­man par­lia­ment on May 2, 1945, dur­ing the Bat­tle of Berlin. The sim­i­lar­i­ties are obvi­ous, but the dif­fer­ence isn’t: the Sovi­et pho­to was faked.

To be more spe­cif­ic, Khaldei’s pic­ture was “staged,” and “parts of it were altered before it was pub­lished.” So says Vox’s Cole­man Lown­des in the video above, which reveals all the pre-Pho­to­shop image manip­u­la­tion — a spe­cial­ty of Sovi­et pro­pa­gan­dists even then —  per­formed on Rais­ing a Flag over the Reich­stag.

“Khaldei super­im­posed some black smoke from anoth­er pho­to and manip­u­lat­ed the con­trast to give the scene a lit­tle more dra­ma,” which in itself may be an under­stand­able choice. But he also erased the wrist­watch of one of the sol­diers brought in to pose with the flag, a detail you might not notice even hold­ing the orig­i­nal and the doc­tored ver­sion side by side. As Lown­des explains, “The sol­dier sup­port­ing the flag-bear­er was wear­ing two watch­es, sug­gest­ing he had been loot­ing, a stain that did­n’t fit the image of Sovi­et hero­ism that Stal­in want­ed.”

A look at the pre­ced­ing few years of the war goes some way to explain­ing this. Ger­many had bru­tal­ly invad­ed Rus­sia in 1941, instill­ing in Rus­sia a thirst for revenge that began to seem satiable when the tables began to turn on Ger­many the fol­low­ing year. In and on their way to Ger­many, the Red Army, too, com­mit­ted crimes against the civil­ians in their path, loot­ing sure­ly being among the least of them. Rais­ing a Flag over the Reich­stag does its job in cap­tur­ing a moment of Sovi­et vic­to­ry, but as Lown­des says, “it also cap­tures, and then con­ceals, a sto­ry of vengeance and mutu­al bru­tal­i­ty, of mur­der, orga­nized destruc­tion, and pil­lag­ing, all cul­mi­nat­ing in this icon­ic moment.” And the more icon­ic the moment, the more poten­tial­ly rev­e­la­to­ry its details — even more so in the case of false ones.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Long Before Pho­to­shop, the Sovi­ets Mas­tered the Art of Eras­ing Peo­ple from Pho­tographs — and His­to­ry Too

Joseph Stal­in, a Life­long Edi­tor, Wield­ed a Big, Blue, Dan­ger­ous Pen­cil

The His­to­ry of Rus­sia in 70,000 Pho­tos: New Pho­to Archive Presents Russ­ian His­to­ry from 1860 to 1999

Down­load 437 Issues of Sovi­et Pho­to Mag­a­zine, the Sovi­et Union’s His­toric Pho­tog­ra­phy Jour­nal (1926–1991)

The First Faked Pho­to­graph (1840)

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 or on Face­book.

Hear the Voice of a 3,0000-Year-Old Egyptian Mummy: Scientists 3‑D Print His Throat & Mouth and Get Him to Speak … a Little

“The Mum­my Speaks!” announces The New York Times in Nicholas St. Fleur’s sto­ry about Nesya­mun, a mum­mi­fied Egypt­ian priest whose voice has been recre­at­ed, sort of, “with the aid of a 3‑D print­ed vocal tract” and an elec­tron­ic lar­ynx. Does the mum­my sound like the mon­ster of clas­sic 1930’s hor­ror? Sci­en­tists have only got as far as one syl­la­ble, “which resem­bles the ‘ah’ and ‘eh’ vow­els sounds heard in the words ‘bad’ and ‘bed.’ ” Yet it’s clear that Nesya­mun would not com­mu­ni­cate with gut­tur­al moans.

This may not make the recre­ation any less creepy. Nesya­mun, whose cof­fin is inscribed with the words “true of voice,” was charged with singing and chant­i­ng the litur­gies; “he had this wish,” says David Howard, speech sci­en­tist at Roy­al Hol­loway, Uni­ver­si­ty of Lon­don, “that his voice would some­how con­tin­ue into per­pe­tu­ity.” Howard and his team’s 3‑D print­ed recre­ation of his mouth and throat has allowed them to syn­the­size “the sound that would come out of his vocal tract if he was in his cof­fin and his lar­ynx came to life again.”

Let’s imag­ine a dif­fer­ent sce­nario, shall we? One in which Nesya­mun speaks from the ancient past rather than from the sar­coph­a­gus. “Voice from the Past” is, indeed, what the researchers call their project, and they hope that it will even­tu­al­ly enable muse­um goers to “engage with the past in com­plete­ly new and inno­v­a­tive ways.”

If Nesya­mun could be made to speak again, St. Fleur writes, “per­haps the mum­my could recite for muse­um vis­i­tors his words to Nut, the ancient Egypt­ian god­dess of the sky and heav­ens: ‘O moth­er Nut, spread out your wings over my face so you may allow me to be like the stars-which-know-no-destruc­tion, like the stars-which-know-no-weari­ness, (and) not to die over again in the ceme­tery.”

Might we empathize? As Uni­ver­si­ty of York archae­ol­o­gist John Schofield puts it, “there is noth­ing more per­son­al than someone’s voice.” Hear­ing the mum­my speak would be “more mul­ti­di­men­sion­al” than only star­ing at his corpse. The nov­el­ty of this expe­ri­ence aside, one can imag­ine the knowl­edge his­to­ri­ans and lin­guists of ancient lan­guages might gath­er from this research. Oth­ers in the sci­en­tif­ic com­mu­ni­ty have expressed their doubts. We may wish to tem­per our expec­ta­tions.

Piero Cosi, an Ital­ian speech sci­en­tist who helped recon­struct the voice of a mum­mi­fied ice­man named Ötzi in 2016 (speak­ing only in Ital­ian vow­els), points out the spec­u­la­tive nature of the sci­ence: “Even if we have the pre­cise 3‑D-geo­met­ric descrip­tion of the voice sys­tem of the mum­my, we would not be able to rebuild pre­cise­ly his orig­i­nal voice.” Egyp­tol­o­gist Kara Cooney notes the clear poten­tial for human bias­es to shape research that uses “so much infer­ence about what [ancient peo­ple] looked or sound­ed like.”

So, what might be the val­ue of approx­i­mat­ing Nesya­mun’s voice? In their paper, pub­lished in Nature Sci­en­tif­ic Reports, Howard and his co-authors explain, in lan­guage that sounds sus­pi­cious­ly like the kind that might invoke a clas­sic hor­ror movie mum­my’s curse:

While this approach has wide impli­ca­tions for her­itage management/museum dis­play, its rel­e­vance con­forms exact­ly to the ancient Egyp­tians’ fun­da­men­tal belief that ‘to speak the name of the dead is to make them live again.’ Giv­en Nesya­mun’s stat­ed desire to have his voice heard in the after­life in order to live for­ev­er, the ful­fil­ment of his beliefs through the syn­the­sis of his vocal func­tion allows us to make direct con­tact with ancient Egypt.

Learn more about the Nesya­mun’s vocal recre­ation in the videos above.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

How to Make a Mum­my — Demon­strat­ed by The Get­ty Muse­um

What the Great Pyra­mid of Giza Would’ve Looked Like When First Built: It Was Gleam­ing, Reflec­tive White

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

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

The e‑Book Imagined in 1935

What is the future of the book? Will it retain more or less the same basic paper-between-cov­ers form as it has since the days of the Guten­berg Bible? Will it go entire­ly dig­i­tal, becom­ing read­able only with com­pat­i­ble elec­tron­ic devices? Or will we, in the com­fort of our arm­chairs, read them on glass-screened micro­film pro­jec­tors? That last is the bet made, and illus­trat­ed as above, by the April 1935 issue of Every­day Sci­ence and Mechan­ics mag­a­zine. “It has proved pos­si­ble to pho­to­graph books, and throw them on a screen for exam­i­na­tion,” says the arti­cle envi­sion­ing “a device for apply­ing this for home use and instruc­tion,” exhumed by Matt Novak at Smithsonian.com.

As The Atlantic’s Megan Gar­ber writes, “The whole thing, to our TV-and-tablet-jad­ed eyes, looks won­der­ful­ly quaint. (The pro­jec­tor! The knobs! The semi-redun­dant read­ing lamp! The smok­ing jack­et!)” But then, “what speaks to our cur­rent, hazy dreams of con­ver­gence more elo­quent­ly than the abil­i­ty to sit back, relax, and turn books into tele­vi­sion?”

And indeed, the orig­i­nal illus­tra­tion includes a cap­tion telling us how such a device will allow you to “read a ‘book’ (which is a roll of minia­ture film), music, etc., at your ease.” That may sound famil­iar to those of us who think noth­ing of flip­ping back and forth between books, web sites, movies, tele­vi­sion shows, and social media — all to our cus­tomized music-and-pod­cast sound­track of choice — on our com­put­ers, tablets, and phones today.

Every­day Sci­ence and Mechan­ics was­n’t look­ing into the dis­tant future. As Novak notes, micro­film had been patent­ed in 1895 and first prac­ti­cal­ly used in 1925; the New York Times began copy­ing its every edi­tion onto micro­film in 1935, the same year this arti­cle appeared. As imprac­ti­cal as it may look now, this home “e‑reader” could the­o­ret­i­cal­ly have been put into use not long there­after. As it hap­pened, the first e‑readers — the hand­held dig­i­tal ones of the kind we know today — would­n’t come on the mar­ket for anoth­er 70 years, and their wide­spread adop­tion has only occurred in the past decade. But for many, good old Guten­berg-style paper-between-cov­ers remains the way to read. It may be that the book has no one future form, but a vari­ety that will exist at once — a vari­ety that, absent a much stronger retro­fu­tur­ism revival, will prob­a­bly not include micro­film, ground-glass screens, and smok­ing jack­ets.

via Smithsonian.com

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Read­ers Pre­dict in 1936 Which Nov­el­ists Would Still Be Wide­ly Read in the Year 2000

1930s Fash­ion Design­ers Pre­dict How Peo­ple Would Dress in the Year 2000

Did Stan­ley Kubrick Invent the iPad in 2001: A Space Odyssey?

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

Napoleon’s Kin­dle: See the Minia­tur­ized Trav­el­ing Library He Took on Mil­i­tary Cam­paigns

Behold the “Book Wheel”: The Renais­sance Inven­tion Cre­at­ed to Make Books Portable & Help Schol­ars Study (1588)

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 or on Face­book.

China’s 8,000 Terracotta Warriors: An Animated & Interactive Introduction to a Great Archaeological Discovery

Unless you’re a Chi­nese his­to­ry buff, the name of Qin Shi Huang may not imme­di­ate­ly ring a bell. But per­haps his accom­plish­ments will sound famil­iar. “He con­quered the war­ring states that sur­round­ed him, cre­at­ing the first uni­fied Chi­nese empire” — mak­ing him the very first emper­or of Chi­na — “and enact­ed a num­ber of mea­sures to cen­tral­ize his admin­is­tra­tion and bol­ster infra­struc­ture,” writes Smithsonian.com’s Brig­it Katz. “In addi­tion to stan­dard­iz­ing weights, mea­sures and the writ­ten lan­guage, the young ruler con­struct­ed a series of for­ti­fi­ca­tions that lat­er became the basis for the Great Wall.”

Sec­ond only to the Great Wall as an ancient Chi­nese arti­fact of note is Emper­or Qin’s army: not the liv­ing army he main­tained to defend and expand his empire, fear­some though it must have been, but the even more impres­sive one made out of ter­ra­cot­ta.

“In 1974, farm­ers dig­ging a well near their small vil­lage stum­bled upon one of the most impor­tant finds in archae­o­log­i­cal his­to­ry,” says the TED-Ed les­son writ­ten by Megan Camp­isi and Pen-Pen Chen above: “a vast under­ground cham­ber sur­round­ing the emper­or’s tomb, and con­tain­ing more than 8,000 life-size clay sol­diers, ready for bat­tle,” all com­mis­sioned by Qin, who after ascend­ing to the throne at age thir­teen “began the con­struc­tion of a mas­sive under­ground necrop­o­lis filled with mon­u­ments, arti­facts, and an army to accom­pa­ny him into the next world and con­tin­ue his rule.”

Qin’s ceram­ic sol­diers, 200 more of which have been dis­cov­ered over the past decade, have stood ready in bat­tle for­ma­tion for well over 2000 years now. Stored in the same area’s under­ground cham­bers are 130 char­i­ots with 520 hors­es, 150 cav­al­ry hors­es, and a vari­ety of musi­cians, acro­bats, work­ers, gov­ern­ment offi­cials, and exot­ic ani­mals — all made of ter­ra­cot­ta, all life-size, and each with its own painstak­ing­ly craft­ed unique­ness. They pop­u­late what we now call a necrop­o­lis, an elab­o­rate­ly designed “city of the dead” built around a mau­soleum. You can get a 360-degree view of a sec­tion of Qin’s necrop­o­lis above, as well as a deep­er look into its his­tor­i­cal back­ground from the BBC doc­u­men­tary New Secrets of the Ter­ra­cot­ta War­riors, the BBC doc­u­men­tary above, and this episode of PBS’ Secrets of the Dead.

Why direct so much mate­r­i­al and labor to such a seem­ing­ly obscure project? Qin, who also showed a great inter­est in search­ing far-flung lands for life-pro­long­ing elixirs, must have con­sid­ered build­ing a well-pop­u­lat­ed necrop­o­lis a rea­son­able bet to secure for him­self a place in eter­ni­ty. Nor was such an endeav­or with­out prece­dent, and in fact Qin’s ver­sion rep­re­sent­ed a civ­i­liz­ing step for­ward for the necrop­o­lis. “Ruth­less as he was,” write Camp­isi and Chen, he at least “chose to have ser­vants and sol­diers built for this pur­pose, rather than hav­ing liv­ing ones sac­ri­ficed to accom­pa­ny him, as had been prac­ticed in Egypt, West Africa, Ana­to­lia, parts of North Amer­i­ca,” and even pre­vi­ous Chi­nese dynas­ties. “You can’t take it with you,” we often hear today regard­ing the amass­ment of wealth in one’s life­time — but maybe, as Qin must have thought, you can take them.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

How Ancient Greek Stat­ues Real­ly Looked: Research Reveals Their Bold, Bright Col­ors and Pat­terns

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

What Ancient Chi­nese Phi­los­o­phy Can Teach Us About Liv­ing the Good Life Today: Lessons from Harvard’s Pop­u­lar Pro­fes­sor, Michael Puett

3D Scans of 7,500 Famous Sculp­tures, Stat­ues & Art­works: Down­load & 3D Print Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David & More

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 or on Face­book.

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