Vincent Van Gogh’s Self Portraits: Explore & Download a Collection of 17 Paintings Free Online

“They say — and I glad­ly believe it — that it is dif­fi­cult to know your­self,” Vin­cent Van Gogh once wrote to his broth­er Theo, “but it isn’t easy to paint one­self either.” This from one of the most pro­lif­ic self-por­traitists of all time. Between the years 1885 and 1889, Van Gogh paint­ed him­self more than 35 times, most of them dur­ing the two years in the mid­dle when he lived in Paris. Always short of funds, but espe­cial­ly strait­ened there, he saved the cost of hir­ing mod­els by invest­ing in a mir­ror instead.

That mir­ror, Van Gogh wrote in anoth­er let­ter, was “good enough to enable me to work from my image in default of a mod­el, because if I can man­age to paint the col­or­ing of my own head, which is not to be done with­out some dif­fi­cul­ty, I shall like­wise be able to paint the heads of oth­er good souls, men and women.” At the Van Gogh Muse­um’s online col­lec­tion you can browse up close and in detail — as well as down­load — sev­en­teen exam­ples of the painter’s essays in his own head col­or, and much else about him­self besides.

We’ve all seen Van Gogh’s two or three most well-known self-por­traits. The most famous of those, 1889’s Self-Por­trait With a Ban­daged Ear (one of two paint­ed that year), hints at the act of self-muti­la­tion that fol­lowed one of his many quar­rels with his friend and col­league Paul Gau­guin. Held at the Cour­tauld Gallery, that paint­ing does­n’t appear on the Van Gogh Muse­um’s site, but those that do reveal aspects of the painter (lit­er­al­ly, in some cas­es) artis­ti­cal­ly unex­plored by his more wide­ly seen works.

Take Self-Por­trait as a Painter at the top of the post, an unusu­al depic­tion in that Van Gogh makes ref­er­ence in it to his pro­fes­sion. Cre­at­ed between Decem­ber 1887 and Feb­ru­ary 1888, this final Parisian work includes a palette, paint­brush­es, and an easel, but the way in which Van Gogh paint­ed it tells us some­thing more: “He showed that he was a mod­ern artist by using a new paint­ing style, with bright, almost unblend­ed col­ors,” says the Van Gogh Muse­um’s web site, “the blue of his smock, for instance, and the orange-red of his beard” cho­sen to inten­si­fy one anoth­er.

Dif­fer­ent self-por­traits empha­size dif­fer­ent dis­tinc­tive ele­ments of Van Gogh’s appear­ance and self-pre­sen­ta­tion. In 1887’s Self-Por­trait with Straw Hat he wears the tit­u­lar piece of head­wear that allows him to use his beloved col­or yel­low, even as he “exam­ines us with one blue and one green eye.” In some self-por­traits he goes not just with­out a hat but with­out any of the accou­trements of his work at all, includ­ing his artist’s smock. In oth­ers, as in the Adolphe Mon­ti­cel­li-inspired exam­ple here, he smokes a pipe; in the clear­ly Impres­sion­ist-influ­enced self-por­trait just above, he opts for both pipe and hat. Yet we can always rec­og­nize Van Gogh by the inten­si­ty of his expres­sion — or as Dou­glas Cou­p­land less rev­er­ent­ly put it, his “self­ie face.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Explore 1400 Paint­ings & Draw­ings by Vin­cent van Gogh–and Much More–at the Van Gogh Museum’s Online Col­lec­tion

Down­load Hun­dreds of Van Gogh Paint­ings, Sketch­es & Let­ters in High Res­o­lu­tion

Expe­ri­ence the Van Gogh Muse­um in 4K Res­o­lu­tion: A Video Tour in Sev­en Parts

Watch as Van Gogh’s Famous Self-Por­trait Morphs Into a Pho­to­graph

Van Gogh’s “Star­ry Night” and “Self Por­trait” Paint­ed on Dark Water, Using a Tra­di­tion­al Turk­ish Art Form

Dis­cov­ered: The Only Known Pic­ture of Vin­cent Van Gogh as an Adult Artist? (Maybe, Maybe Not)

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.

One of the Oldest Buddhist Manuscripts Has Been Digitized & Put Online: Explore the Gandhara Scroll

Bud­dhism goes way back — so far back, in fact, that we’re still exam­in­ing impor­tant evi­dence of just how far back it goes. Take the exhib­it above, which may look like noth­ing more than a col­lec­tion of fad­ed scraps with writ­ing on them. In fact, they’re pieces of the labo­ri­ous­ly and care­ful­ly unrolled and scanned Gand­hara Scroll, which, hav­ing orig­i­nal­ly been writ­ten about two mil­len­nia ago, ranks as one of the old­est Bud­dhist man­u­scripts cur­rent­ly known. You can read the scrol­l’s sto­ry at the blog of the Library of Con­gress, the insti­tu­tion that pos­sess­es it and only last year was able to put it online for all to see.

“The scroll orig­i­nat­ed in Gand­hara, an ancient Bud­dhist kind­gom locat­ed in what is today the north­ern bor­der areas of Afghanistan and Pak­istan,” writes the Library’s Neely Tuck­er. “Sur­viv­ing man­u­scripts from the Gand­ha­ran realm are rare; only a few hun­dred are known to still exist.” That realm “was under the rule of numer­ous kings and dynas­ties, includ­ing Alexan­der the Great, the Mau­ryan emper­or Ashoka and the Kushan emper­or Kan­ish­ka I,” and for a time “became a major seat of Bud­dhist art, archi­tec­ture and learn­ing. One of the region’s most notable char­ac­ter­is­tics is the Hel­lenis­tic style of its Bud­dhist sculp­tures, includ­ing fig­ures of the Bud­dha with wavy hair, defined facial fea­tures, and con­toured robes rem­i­nis­cent of Gre­co-Roman deities.”

Writ­ten in the Gand­hari vari­ant of San­skrit, the “Bahubud­dha Sutra” or “Many Bud­dhas Sutra,” as this scroll has been called, con­sti­tutes part of “the much larg­er Mahavas­tu, or ‘Great Sto­ry,’ a biog­ra­phy of the Bud­dha and his past lives.” Here Tuck­er draws from the schol­ar­ship of Richard G. Salomon, emer­i­tus pro­fes­sor of San­skrit and Bud­dhist stud­ies at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Wash­ing­ton, anoth­er insti­tu­tion that holds a piece of the Gand­ha­ran Bud­dhist texts. Many more reside at the British Library, which acquired them in 1994. The Library of Con­gress bought its Gand­hara Scroll from a British deal­er more recent­ly, in 2003, and it arrived in what Tuck­er describes as “an ordi­nary pen case, accom­pa­nied by a hand­writ­ten note: ‘Extreme­ly frag­ile, do not open unless nec­es­sary.’ ”

So began “sev­er­al years of thought and plan­ning to devise a treat­ment strat­e­gy,” an effort that at one point saw the Library’s con­ser­va­tor prac­tic­ing “her unrolling tech­nique on a dried-up cig­ar — an item that only approx­i­mates the dif­fi­cul­ty of work­ing with a com­pact­ed birch bark scroll.” Then came “grad­ual humid­i­fi­ca­tion over a few days, care­ful unrolling by hand with pre­ci­sion tools on a sheet of inert glass, fol­lowed by plac­ing anoth­er sheet of glass on top once the scroll was com­plete­ly unrolled,” a “dra­mat­ic and silent affair” described in greater detail by Atlas Obscu­ra’s Sab­ri­na Imbler.

The result was six large frag­ments and more than 100 small­er ones, togeth­er con­sti­tut­ing rough­ly 80 per­cent of the scrol­l’s orig­i­nal text. You can see all those frag­ments of the Gand­hara Scroll, scanned in high res­o­lu­tion, at the Library of Con­gress’ web site. This will nat­u­ral­ly be a more edi­fy­ing expe­ri­ence if, like Salomon, you hap­pen to be able to read Gand­hari. Even if you can’t, there’s some­thing to be felt in the expe­ri­ence of sim­ply behold­ing a 2,000 year old text com­posed on birch bark through the dig­i­tal medi­um on which we do most of our read­ing here in the 21st cen­tu­ry — where inter­est in Bud­dhism shows no signs of wan­ing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Breath­tak­ing­ly-Detailed Tibetan Book Print­ed 40 Years Before the Guten­berg Bible

The World’s Largest Col­lec­tion of Tibetan Bud­dhist Lit­er­a­ture Now Online

2,000-Year-Old Man­u­script of the Ten Com­mand­ments Gets Dig­i­tized: See/Download “Nash Papyrus” in High Res­o­lu­tion

Google Dig­i­tizes Ancient Copies of the Ten Com­mand­ments and Gen­e­sis

Google Puts The Dead Sea Scrolls Online (in Super High Res­o­lu­tion)

Archae­ol­o­gists Think They’ve Dis­cov­ered the Old­est Greek Copy of Homer’s Odyssey: 13 Vers­es on a Clay Tablet

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.

The Flying Train: A 1902 Film Captures a Futuristic Ride on a Suspended Railway in Germany

We’ve been focus­ing a lot recent­ly on old films from the turn of the cen­tu­ry that a small group of enthu­si­asts have been “remas­ter­ing” using AI, smooth­ing out the herky-jerky fram­ing, upping the frame rate by inter­po­lat­ing between-frames, and more.

So what a sur­prise to find a recent look at a film in the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art’s film col­lec­tion from 1902 that already has the fideli­ty and smooth­ness, no AI need­ed.

The above footage is tak­en from the Wup­per­taler Schwe­be­bahn, the sus­pen­sion rail­way built in the Ger­man city of Bar­men in 1901. The Bio­graph pro­duc­tion company—best known to film stu­dents as the place where D.W. Grif­fiths got his start—was one of the most pop­u­lar of the ear­ly film com­pa­nies, and pro­duced mini-docs like these, called Muto­scopes.

The Muto­scope used 68mm film, a film stock twice as large as most films at the time. (70mm film real­ly only came into its own dur­ing the 1950s.) The 30 frames per sec­ond shoot­ing rate was also faster than the usu­al 18fps or 24fps, which means the illu­sion of real­i­ty is clos­er to the video rate of today. The Muto­scope was also the name of the company’s view­er, where the frames were print­ed on cards and could be watched through a viewfind­er. So we are watch­ing a film that was nev­er meant to be pro­ject­ed. (If you’re think­ing that the Muto­scope was also used for pri­vate view­ings of What the But­ler Saw, you are cor­rect.)

Despite the fideli­ty our favorite upscaler Denis Shiryaev still had a go at improv­ing the footage and adding col­or and sound. (There’s also a com­peti­tor work­ing on their own upscale and col­oriza­tion ver­sion called Upscaled Stu­dio). Which one is bet­ter, do you think? And how much was the expe­ri­ence improved?

And in case you’re won­der­ing, the Wup­per­tal Schwe­be­bahn still oper­ates to this day, look­ing very much like it did back in 1902. The total route is just over eight miles long and fol­lows the riv­er Wup­per for a lot of it, and ser­vices 82,000 com­muters a day. (Less so dur­ing COVID of course.) You can check out footage below. It def­i­nite­ly looks fun fun fun on the Schwe­be­bahn.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Icon­ic Film from 1896 Restored with Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence: Watch an AI-Upscaled Ver­sion of the Lumière Broth­ers’ The Arrival of a Train at La Cio­tat Sta­tion

Revis­it Scenes of Dai­ly Life in Ams­ter­dam in 1922, with His­toric Footage Enhanced by Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence

A Trip Through New York City in 1911: Vin­tage Video of NYC Gets Col­orized & Revived with Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

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.

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 Obscu­ra, buchette 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.

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