Anatomy of a Fake: Forgery Experts Reveal 5 Ways To Spot a Fake Painting by Jackson Pollock (or Any Other Artist)

In the old days, deter­min­ing an art forgery was most­ly a mat­ter of nar­ra­tive deduc­tion, a la Sher­lock Holmes.

Thi­a­go Piwowar­czyk and Jef­frey Tay­lor, founders of New York Art Foren­sics, employ such tech­niques to estab­lish prove­nance, trac­ing the chain of own­er­ship of any giv­en work back to its orig­i­nal sale by research­ing cat­a­logues, title trans­fers, and cor­re­spon­dence.

But they also bring a num­ber of high tech tools to the table, to fur­ther prove—or in the case of the alleged Jack­son Pol­lock drip paint­ing above, disprove—a work’s authen­tic­i­ty.

In the WIRED video above, these experts, whose pedi­gree includes degrees in Chem­istry, Foren­sic Sci­ence, and Com­par­a­tive His­to­ry, a Visu­al Arts Man­age­ment text­book, and two Frick Col­lec­tion Fel­low­ships, break the sleuthing process down to five crit­i­cal steps:

1. Estab­lish prove­nance

Obso­lete tech­nol­o­gy has a place in the process too, in the form of a high­ly unre­li­able fax, alleged­ly sent in 1997. It pur­ports to be a pho­to­copy of a type­writ­ten let­ter from 1970, writ­ten by a gallery own­er who talked one of the artist’s for­mer girl­friends into part­ing with a num­ber of works after his death.

Unfor­tu­nate­ly for the painting’s cur­rent own­er, Piwowar­czyk and Tay­lor could find no proof that the gallery or its own­er ever exist­ed. The let­ter also botch­es Pollock’s death date and odd­ly, there’s a blank where the sender’s num­ber would nor­mal­ly be.

Due dili­gence reveals noth­ing resem­bling this paint­ing in the cat­a­logue raison­né of Pollock’s work.

2. Close up visu­al analy­sis

This can be accom­plished with tools as sim­ple as the flash­light and plas­tic caliper Tay­lor uses to exam­ine the sta­ple holes found at reg­u­lar inter­vals along the unsigned can­vas’ edges. In the 1940s, artists start­ed grav­i­tat­ing toward sta­ples over tacks as a method for secur­ing their can­vas­es to stretch­er bars, but would Pol­lock have done so? Like­ly not, to hear him tell it:

I hard­ly ever stretch my can­vas before paint­ing. I pre­fer to tack the unstretched can­vas to the hard wall or the floor. I need the resis­tance of a hard sur­face.

Piwowar­czyk and Tay­lor draw on their oth­er sens­es, too, when per­form­ing this in-depth visu­al inspec­tion. A deep sniff reveals that teabags were used to dis­col­or the can­vas, in hope of mak­ing it appear old­er than it is.

3. Pho­tog­ra­phy with a mul­ti­spec­tral imag­ing cam­era 

This camera’s abil­i­ty to see the Ultra-Vio­let spec­trum allows our foren­sic experts to spot restora­tions, under­draw­ing, and pen­ti­men­ti. Here, the cam­era revealed an under­ly­ing paint­ing whose geo­met­ric lay­out is unchar­ac­ter­is­tic of Pol­lock, as well as a sus­pi­cious­ly ama­teur­ish patch job on the back of the can­vas, anoth­er attempt to make the paint­ing appear old­er than it is.

4. Exam­i­na­tion with an X‑ray flu­o­res­cence spec­trom­e­ter

It looks like a cool Star Wars prop, and allows the exam­in­ers to iden­ti­fy ele­ments in the pig­ment. Here, our “Pol­lock” gets a pass. There’s tita­ni­um (as in Tita­ni­um White) in evi­dence, but that’s per­mis­si­ble for any­thing paint­ed from the 30s onward.

5. Mol­e­c­u­lar Imag­ing and Analy­sis by Raman Spec­troscopy

The forg­er might have got­ten away with it if it weren’t for those med­dling kids and their Raman Spec­tro­scope! The minus­cule sam­ples of paint Piwowar­czyk har­vests from the can­vas reveal all sorts of organ­ic debris that have no place in a Pol­lock, such as dry­wall dust and an acrylic that didn’t come into use ‘til the 1960s.

In con­clu­sion, exer­cise cau­tion and con­sult the experts before pur­chas­ing a high val­ue drip paint­ing this hol­i­day sea­son! Accord­ing to Piwowar­czyk, the fakes—over 100 and pre­sum­ably still counting—outstrip the num­ber of drip paint­ings Pol­lock cre­at­ed through­out his life­time.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How an Art Con­ser­va­tor Com­plete­ly Restores a Dam­aged Paint­ing: A Short, Med­i­ta­tive Doc­u­men­tary

The Art of Restor­ing a 400-Year-Old Paint­ing: A Five-Minute Primer

How a Book Thief Forged a Rare Edi­tion of Galileo’s Sci­en­tif­ic Work, and Almost Pulled it Off

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC from Decem­ber 6 — 20 for the 10th anniver­sary pro­duc­tion of Greg Kotis’ apoc­a­lyp­tic hol­i­day tale, The Truth About San­ta, and the next month­ly install­ment of her book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

How Peter Jackson Made His State-of-the-Art World War I Documentary, They Shall Not Grow Old: An Inside Look

There are very few work­ing direc­tors today who can do what Peter Jack­son does so well—create extra­or­di­nary spec­ta­cles on the grand­est of scales while also stay­ing tight­ly focused on char­ac­ter devel­op­ment and emo­tion­al depth. He’s made mis­steps. His Hob­bit tril­o­gy felt bloat­ed, busy and unnec­es­sary, but one rea­son it so dis­ap­point­ed was because he’d already shown him­self a mas­ter of fan­ta­sy film­mak­ing with what many con­sid­ered the unfilm­ma­ble Lord of the Rings.

Of course non-Tolkien-relat­ed Jack­son films like Heav­en­ly Crea­tures also show­case these strengths, on a small­er scale: the abil­i­ty to retain the human dimen­sion amidst cin­e­mat­ic spec­ta­cles and inhu­man dark­ness (a qual­i­ty he mined explic­it­ly in his years as a hor­ror direc­tor). All of these sen­si­bil­i­ties, includ­ing a pro­nounced streak of dark humor and tal­ent for manip­u­lat­ing his audi­ences, make him the ide­al direc­tor for a doc­u­men­tary on World War I.

It’s a con­flict that makes lit­tle his­tor­i­cal sense to most of us, that unfold­ed on a scale few of us can imag­ine, with few iden­ti­fi­able heroes and vil­lains and a com­pli­cat­ed geopo­lit­i­cal sit­u­a­tion that can feel out of our grasp.

Many doc­u­men­taries on the war are infor­ma­tive but, frankly, quite dull. In striv­ing for objec­tiv­i­ty, they lose sight of human­i­ty. Rather than adopt the voice of god and news­reel look that char­ac­ter­izes the usu­al fare, Jack­son has tak­en an active role in shap­ing the nar­ra­tive for us with cut­ting-edge block­buster cin­e­mat­ic tech­niques. He gives us char­ac­ters to care about in show­ing the hor­ror of trench war­fare, the con­fu­sion and cama­raderie of war. Though he uses orig­i­nal footage, it is dig­i­tal­ly enhanced and col­orized, screened in 3D, with record­ings of remem­brances from the sol­diers them­selves dra­mat­i­cal­ly over­laid to cre­ate the sense that the fig­ures we see onscreen are speak­ing to us.

The result, as Guy Lodge writes at Vari­ety, “is a tech­ni­cal daz­zler with a sur­pris­ing­ly humane streak…. So daz­zling­ly trans­for­ma­tive is the restora­tion of this footage that it may as well be the prod­uct of a movie shoot.” Indeed, once the cred­its roll, view­ers see the same “ver­i­ta­ble army of mag­ic-work­ing tech­ni­cians’ names” as they would on any big-bud­get action movie. Jack­son has, in effect, pro­duced “the world’s most state-of-the-art edu­ca­tion­al film,” apply­ing all the emo­tion­al levers and pul­leys of fea­ture film­mak­ing to a his­tor­i­cal archive.

Like most of us, stu­dents have trou­ble under­stand­ing the scale of the war and con­nect­ing with the lives of peo­ple so indis­tinct­ly pho­tographed and far away in time. Jack­son makes sure that they can do both, and his film will be sent to every high school in the U.K. Those schools will not, of course, be able to repro­duce the 3D effects. Yet even these, though they sound “gim­micky on the face of it,” writes Lodge, prove “to have an expe­ri­en­tial pur­pose, con­vey­ing the jud­der­ing move­ment and chaos of a con­flict many of us have large­ly viewed through cal­ci­fied still images.”

In the inter­views and behind the scenes videos here, we learn how Jack­son and his team solved the film speed prob­lem to make the old reels look nat­ur­al, how they cre­at­ed a col­or palette and removed blur­ri­ness and blem­ish­es. Jack­son also talks about his own per­son­al stake in the project, imag­in­ing what his grand­fa­ther endured in the Great War. This con­nec­tion seems to have spurred him all the more in the effort.

“To memo­ri­al­ize these sol­diers a hun­dred years lat­er,” he says, “is to try to bring some of their human­i­ty back into the world again, to stop them being a black and white cliché.” In cre­at­ing this mov­ing memo­r­i­al, Jack­son goes far beyond the man­date of an edu­ca­tion­al film. He has used all the tech­niques at his dis­pos­al to make good on the promise in Robert Lau­rence Binyon’s 1914 poem “For the Fall­en,” from which the doc­u­men­tary takes its title:

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years con­demn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morn­ing
We will remem­ber them.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Peter Jackson’s New Film on World War I Fea­tures Incred­i­ble Dig­i­tal­ly-Restored Footage From the Front Lines: Get a Glimpse

Watch World War I Unfold in a 6 Minute Time-Lapse Film: Every Day From 1914 to 1918

The Great War: Video Series Will Doc­u­ment How WWI Unfold­ed, Week-by-Week, for the Next 4 Years

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

How the Inca Used Intricately-Knotted Cords, Called Khipu, to Write Their Histories, Send Messages & Keep Records

Those of us who learned to write in a (most­ly) pho­net­ic lan­guage learned to take it for grant­ed that writ­ing should cor­re­spond (rough­ly) to sound. Then we learned of the pic­tographs, ideo­graphs, and logograms of the Chi­nese alpha­bet, or of Ancient Egypt­ian or Mayan, or of oth­er non-phone­mic orthogra­phies, and we were forced to revise ear­li­er assump­tions. Those who pur­sue the study of sym­bol­ic sys­tems even fur­ther will even­tu­al­ly come to meet khipu, the Incan sys­tem of record-keep­ing that uses intri­cate­ly knot­ted rope.

Khipu, long thought an aba­cus-like means of book­keep­ing, has recent­ly been acknowl­edged as much more than that, coun­ter­ing a schol­ar­ly view Daniel Cossins sum­ma­rizes at New Sci­en­tist as the belief that the Incas, despite their tech­no­log­i­cal and polit­i­cal “sophis­ti­ca­tion… nev­er learned to write.” This Euro­pean logo­cen­trism (in the Der­ridean sense), per­sist­ed for cen­turies despite some evi­dence to the con­trary four hun­dred years ago.

For exam­ple, the poet Gar­cila­so de la Vega, son of an Incan princess and Span­ish con­quis­ta­dor, wrote in 1609 that the Incas “record­ed on knots every­thing that could be count­ed, even men­tion­ing bat­tles and fights, all the embassies that had come to vis­it the Inca, and all the speech­es and argu­ments they had uttered.” There may be some hyper­bole here. In any case, the point “was moot,” notes Cossins, “because no one could read any of them.”

Like most­ly illit­er­ate cul­tures in the West and East that relied on scribes for record-keep­ing, Incan civ­i­liza­tion relied on khipumayuq, “or the keep­ers of the khi­pus, a spe­cial­ly trained caste who could tie and read the cords.” As explor­er Ale­jan­dro Chu and Patri­cia Lan­da, Con­ser­va­tor of the Inc­ahuasi Arche­o­log­i­cal Project, explain in the Nation­al Geo­graph­ic video at the top, these spe­cial­ists died, or were killed off, before they could pass their knowl­edge to the next gen­er­a­tions.

But the lin­guis­tic code, it seems, may have been cracked—by an under­grad­u­ate fresh­man eco­nom­ics major at Har­vard named Man­ny Medra­no. As Atlas Obscu­ra report­ed last year, Medra­no, work­ing under his pro­fes­sor of Pre-Columbian stud­ies, Gary Urton, spent his spring break match­ing a set of six khipu against a colo­nial-era Span­ish cen­sus doc­u­ment. He was able to con­firm what schol­ars had long assumed, that khipu kept track of cen­sus and oth­er admin­is­tra­tive data.

More­over, though, Medra­no “noticed that the way each cord was tied onto the khipu seemed to cor­re­spond to the social sta­tus of the 132 peo­ple record­ed in the cen­sus doc­u­ment. The col­ors of the strings also appeared to be relat­ed to the people’s first names.” (Now a senior, Medrano’s find­ings have been pub­lished in the jour­nal Eth­no­his­to­ry; he is first author on the paper, “indi­cat­ing that he con­tributed the bulk of the research”).

This research shows how khipu can tell sto­ries as well as record data sets. Medra­no built upon decades of work done by Urton and oth­er schol­ars, which Cossins sum­ma­rizes in more detail. Oth­er ethno­g­ra­phers like St. Andrews’ Sabine Hyland have had sim­i­lar epipha­nies. Hyland chanced upon a woman in Lima who point­ed her to khi­pus in the vil­lage of San Juan de Col­la­ta. The vil­lagers “believe them to be nar­ra­tive epis­tles,” writes Cossins, “cre­at­ed by local chiefs dur­ing a rebel­lion against the Span­ish in the late 18th cen­tu­ry.”

After care­ful analy­sis, Hyland found that the khi­pus’ pen­dant cords “came in 95 dif­fer­ent com­bi­na­tions of colour, fibre type and direc­tion of ply. That is with­in the range of sym­bols typ­i­cal­ly found in syl­lab­ic writ­ing sys­tems.” She has since hypoth­e­sized that khipu “con­tain a com­bi­na­tion of pho­net­ic sym­bols and ideo­graph­ic ones, where a sym­bol rep­re­sents a whole word.”

Hyland grants it’s pos­si­ble that lat­er khi­pus made after con­tact with the Span­ish may have absorbed an alpha­bet from Span­ish writ­ing. Nev­er­the­less, these find­ings should make us won­der what oth­er arti­facts from around the world pre­serve a lan­guage West­ern schol­ars have nev­er learned how to read.

Attempts to deci­pher khi­pus use all sorts of com­par­a­tive meth­ods, from com­par­ing them with each oth­er to com­par­ing them with con­tem­po­rary Span­ish doc­u­ments. But one inno­v­a­tive method at MIT began by com­par­ing Incan khipu with stu­dent attempts to cre­ate their own rope lan­guage, in a 2007 course led by the “Khipu Research Group,” a col­lec­tion of schol­ars, includ­ing Urton, from arche­ol­o­gy, elec­tri­cal engi­neer­ing, and com­put­er sci­ence.

“To gain insight into this ques­tion” of how the code might work, the syl­labus notes, “this class will explore how you would record lan­guage with knots in rope.” Maybe you’d rather skip the guess­work and learn how to make a khipu the way the Inca may have done? If so, see the series of six videos above by Har­vard Ph.D. stu­dent in arche­ol­o­gy, Jon Clin­daniel. And to learn as much about khipu as you might ever hope to know, check out the Khipu Data­base Project at Har­vard, whose goal is to col­lect “all known infor­ma­tion about khipu into one cen­tral­ized repos­i­to­ry.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Take a Vir­tu­al Tour of Machu Pic­chu, One of the New 7 Won­ders of the World

How to Write in Cuneiform, the Old­est Writ­ing Sys­tem in the World: A Short, Charm­ing Intro­duc­tion

Trigonom­e­try Dis­cov­ered on a 3700-Year-Old Ancient Baby­lon­ian Tablet

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

In 17th-Century Japan, Creaking Floors Functioned as Security Systems That Warned Palaces & Temples of Approaching Intruders and Assassins

Offer a cut­ting-edge secu­ri­ty sys­tem, and you’ll suf­fer no short­age of cus­tomers who want it installed. But before our age of con­cealed cam­eras, motion sen­sors, reti­nal scan­ners, and all the oth­er advanced and often unset­tling tech­nolo­gies known only to indus­try insid­ers, how did own­ers of large, expen­sive, and even roy­al­ty-hous­ing prop­er­ties buy peace of mind? We find one par­tic­u­lar­ly inge­nious answer by look­ing back about 400 years ago, to the wood­en cas­tles and tem­ples of 17th-cen­tu­ry Japan.

“For cen­turies, Japan has tak­en pride in the tal­ents of its crafts­men, car­pen­ters and wood­work­ers includ­ed,” writes Sora News 24’s Casey Baseel. “Because of that, you might be sur­prised to find that some Japan­ese cas­tles have extreme­ly creaky wood­en floors that screech and groan with each step. How could such slip­shod con­struc­tion have been con­sid­ered accept­able for some of the most pow­er­ful fig­ures in Japan­ese his­to­ry? The answer is that the sounds weren’t just tol­er­at­ed, but desired, as the noise-pro­duc­ing floors func­tioned as Japan’s ear­li­est auto­mat­ed intrud­er alarm.”

In these spe­cial­ly engi­neered floors, “planks of wood are placed atop a frame­work of sup­port­ing beams, secure­ly enough that they won’t dis­lodge, but still loose­ly enough that there’s a lit­tle bit of play when they’re stepped on.” And when they are stepped on, “their clamps rub against nails attached to the beams, cre­at­ing a shrill chirp­ing noise,” ren­der­ing stealthy move­ment near­ly impos­si­ble and thus mak­ing for an effec­tive “coun­ter­mea­sure against spies, thieves, and assas­sins.”

Accord­ing to Zen-Garden.org, you can still find — and walk on — four such uguisub­ari, or “nightin­gale floors,” in Kyoto: at Daikaku-ji tem­ple, Chio-in tem­ple, Toji-in tem­ple, and Nino­mu­ra Palace.

If you can’t make it out to Kyoto any time soon, you can have a look and a lis­ten to a cou­ple of those nightin­gale floors in the short clips above. Then you’ll under­stand just how dif­fi­cult it would have been to cross one with­out alert­ing any­one to your pres­ence. This sort of thing sends our imag­i­na­tions straight to visions of high­ly trained nin­jas skill­ful­ly out­wit­ting palace guards, but in their day these delib­er­ate­ly squeaky floors floors also car­ried more pleas­ant asso­ci­a­tions than that of immi­nent assas­si­na­tion. As this poem on Zen-Garden.org’s uguisub­ari page says says:

 

鳥を聞く

歓迎すべき音

鴬張りを渡る

 

A wel­come sound

To hear the birds sing

across the nightin­gale floor

via @12pt9/Sora News

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hōshi: A Short Doc­u­men­tary on the 1300-Year-Old Hotel Run by the Same Japan­ese Fam­i­ly for 46 Gen­er­a­tions

Watch Japan­ese Wood­work­ing Mas­ters Cre­ate Ele­gant & Elab­o­rate Geo­met­ric Pat­terns with Wood

Mes­mer­iz­ing GIFs Illus­trate the Art of Tra­di­tion­al Japan­ese Wood Join­ery — All Done With­out Screws, Nails, or Glue

Omoshi­roi Blocks: Japan­ese Memo Pads Reveal Intri­cate Build­ings As The Pages Get Used

A Vir­tu­al Tour of Japan’s Inflat­able Con­cert Hall

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.

These Four Manuscripts Contain All of the Literature Written in Old English–and Beyond That, There’s Nothing More

Book his­to­ri­ans and rare man­u­script librar­i­ans do not have the most glam­orous jobs by the usu­al stan­dards. They deal with weath­ered, tat­tered, frag­men­tary scraps of text in archa­ic lan­guages and let­ter­ing. It’s work unlike­ly to receive the Hol­ly­wood (or Net­flix) treat­ment unless wiz­ards, witch­es, or occult detec­tives are involved. But the rel­a­tive obscu­ri­ty of these pro­fes­sions does not make the work any less valu­able. With­out ded­i­cat­ed archivists and preser­va­tion­ists, a slow col­lec­tive amne­sia, or worse, can set in.

One might call this atti­tude pre­cious. Spe­cial­ists are use­ful, art is great, but with sophis­ti­cat­ed machine learn­ing, we can make, store, and print copies of every his­tor­i­cal arti­fact in the world, along with all of the accu­mu­lat­ed knowl­edge about them. What need to dote on crum­bling man­u­scripts? Why the spe­cial sta­tus of the orig­i­nal? The ques­tion, tak­en up by Wal­ter Ben­jamin in his 1936 essay, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechan­i­cal Repro­duc­tion,” comes down in part to some­thing he called “aura.”

Take the case of four man­u­scripts, all of which recent­ly appeared togeth­er at the British Library’s exten­sive exhi­bi­tion Anglo-Sax­on King­doms: Art, Word, War: The Ver­cel­li Book, the Junius Man­u­script, the Exeter Book, and the Beowulf Man­u­script con­tain rid­dles, reli­gious texts, ele­gies, and the old­est man­u­script of the old­est known poem in Eng­lish. These rep­re­sent the sum total of extant orig­i­nal lit­er­ary man­u­scripts in Old Eng­lish, a tongue sev­er­al cen­turies dis­tant from our own but still embed­ded deep with­in the struc­ture of every mod­ern ver­sion of the lan­guage.

Each man­u­script has what, as Ben­jamin wrote, “even the most per­fect repro­duc­tion of a work of art is lack­ing… its pres­ence in time and space, its unique exis­tence at the place where it hap­pens to be.” Josephine Liv­ing­stone puts the mat­ter more plain­ly at The New Repub­lic.

Why are these four books so spe­cial? It has to do, I think, with the con­cept of the original—a con­cept we have almost entire­ly lost touch with. The Beowulf Man­u­script… is not mere­ly a rep­re­sen­ta­tion of a sto­ry; it is the sto­ry…. The man­u­scripts con­front us with a for­mer ver­sion of our lit­er­ary selves; iden­ti­ties that we bare­ly rec­og­nize, and which estrange us from our­selves.

We can repro­duce his­to­ry infi­nite­ly, but the only way to expe­ri­ence the hum­bling oth­er­world­li­ness that dwarfs our cramped ideas about it is through its phys­i­cal remain­ders. Liv­ing­stone doesn’t clar­i­fy whom she includes in the phrase “our lit­er­ary selves,” but we might as well say, at min­i­mum, this means every speak­er of Eng­lish and every­one who has read Eng­lish lit­er­a­ture in trans­la­tion or felt the influ­ence of Eng­lish words and phras­es in oth­er lan­guages.

We acquire the lan­guage we hear and read from lit­er­ary sources, how­ev­er remote; they are con­sti­tu­tive, the threads that weave togeth­er cul­tur­al nar­ra­tives into a larg­er pat­tern. The orig­i­nal work of art, Ben­jamin argued, like the rel­ic, has reli­gious sig­nif­i­cance. And where the rel­ic grounds the cult, art grounds mate­r­i­al cul­ture in such a way, he thought, that it repels fas­cis­m’s aes­thet­ic obses­sion with destruc­tion.

Orig­i­nal arti­facts “must restore the instinc­tu­al pow­er of the human bod­i­ly sens­es,” lit­er­ary schol­ar Susan Buck-Morss elab­o­rates, “for the sake of humanity’s self-preser­va­tion.” The state­ment may sound less grandiose in the con­text of Europe in 1936, or we might con­sid­er it just as rel­e­vant today (and expand it to include not only art but nature).

We can rely on the fact that, should the Beowulf Man­u­script be destroyed, Liv­ing­stone grants, “the poem would still sur­vive,” as would the image of the man­u­script in very fine detail. That is “the hope con­tained in Benjamin’s dirge.” But what is lost can nev­er appear in the world again. You can view most of these rare texts—The Ver­cel­li Book, the Junius Man­u­script, and the Beowulf Manuscript—in high res­o­lu­tion scans at the British and Bodleian Libraries.

The texts are a minus­cule sam­pling of the num­ber of cul­tur­al arti­facts around the world wor­thy of preser­va­tion, and pub­lic­i­ty. And they are a tiny sam­pling of the lit­er­ary pro­duc­tion of Old Eng­lish. But on them rests a great deal of our under­stand­ing about the lin­guis­tic ances­tors of the lan­guage, with more to learn, per­haps, as scan­ning tech­nol­o­gy becomes even more advanced, illu­mi­nat­ing rather than replac­ing the orig­i­nal.

via The New Repub­lic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

1,000-Year-Old Man­u­script of Beowulf Dig­i­tized and Now Online

Europe’s Old­est Intact Book Was Pre­served and Found in the Cof­fin of a Saint

One of the Best Pre­served Ancient Man­u­scripts of The Ili­ad Is Now Dig­i­tized: See the “Bankes Homer” Man­u­script in High Res­o­lu­tion (Cir­ca 150 C.E.)

Wikipedia Leads Effort to Cre­ate a Dig­i­tal Archive of 20 Mil­lion Arti­facts Lost in the Brazil­ian Muse­um Fire

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

Hear the Sounds of World War I: A Gas Attack Recorded on the Front Line, and the Moment the Armistice Ended the War

The world recent­ly com­mem­o­rat­ed the 100th anniver­sary of end of World War I, which came to its close on Novem­ber 11th, 1918. The last vet­er­ans of that unprece­dent­ed­ly large-scale mil­i­tary con­flict, all of them cen­te­nar­i­ans or super­cente­nar­i­ans, died in the late 2000s and ear­ly 2010s. Though his­tor­i­cal schol­ar­ship on the sub­ject con­tin­ues, the Great War, as it was wide­ly known at the time, has now well and tru­ly passed out of liv­ing mem­o­ry. No one alive saw World War I for them­selves, though we do have pho­tographs, some of them in col­or; and no one alive heard World War I for them­selves, though we do have a lit­tle record­ed audio: in the clip above, you can hear the sounds of a gas shell bom­bard­ment in the war’s final year.

“Just before the end of the Great War, William Gais­berg, a sound recordist of the pre-elec­tric era, took record­ing equip­ment to the West­ern Front in order to cap­ture the sound of British artillery shelling Ger­man lines with poi­son gas,” writes media his­to­ri­an Bri­an Han­ra­han at Sound­ing Out!. The “Gas Shell Bom­bard­ment” record, “a 12-inch HMV shel­lac disc, just over 2 min­utes at 78 rpm,” came out just as the war end­ed, a few weeks after Gais­berg’s own death (prob­a­bly of Span­ish flu) and just after the end of the war itself. “Ini­tial­ly intend­ed to pro­mote War Bonds,” Han­ra­han explains, ulti­mate­ly the record was used to raise mon­ey for dis­abled vet­er­ans.”

Long billed as one of the first “actu­al­i­ty record­ings” (the kind “doc­u­ment­ing a real loca­tion and event beyond the per­for­ma­tive space of the stu­dio, imprint­ed with the audi­ble mate­r­i­al trace of an actu­al moment in space and time”), the record lat­er came under scruti­ny, which Han­ra­han writes about in detail: “Close lis­ten­ing at slow speeds – just care­ful atten­tion and nota­tion, noth­ing more elab­o­rate – revealed incon­sis­ten­cies and odd­i­ties in the fir­ing nois­es.” These and oth­er qual­i­ties sug­gest lay­ers of sound added after the fact, on top of the ini­tial record­ing in the field, much like live con­cert record­ings now get “sweet­ened” with addi­tion­al lay­ers of instru­men­ta­tion (and even audi­ence enthu­si­asm).

But we can hard­ly expect per­fect fideli­ty from audio record­ings of the events of a cen­tu­ry ago, a time when audio record­ing itself was still in its infan­cy. You can hear anoth­er approach to the task of hear­ing World War I in the clip just above, an “inter­pre­ta­tion” of the sound of the armistice caus­ing the guns to fall silent. This real­is­tic minute of sound was based on sound infor­ma­tion col­lect­ed in the field, using a tech­nique called “sound rang­ing” in which, as Smith­son­ian’s Jason Daley explains, “tech­ni­cians set up strings of micro­phones — actu­al­ly bar­rels of oil dug into the ground — a cer­tain dis­tance apart, then used a piece of pho­to­graph­ic film to visu­al­ly record noise inten­si­ty,” much as “a seis­mome­ter records an earth­quake.”

As part of its com­mem­o­ra­tion of the armistice’s cen­ten­ni­al, London’s Impe­r­i­al War Muse­um “com­mis­sioned the sound pro­duc­tion com­pa­ny Coda to Coda to use the film strip of the guns fir­ing away at 10:58 A.M. on Novem­ber 11, 1918, then going silent when the clock strikes 11, the sym­bol­ic moment politi­cians deter­mined the war would end, to try and recre­ate what that instant may have sound­ed like.” Though you can hear the result on the inter­net, you can also go to the Impe­r­i­al War Muse­um exhi­bi­tion Mak­ing a New World in per­son and more intense­ly expe­ri­ence it through the “sound­bar” installed there, on which “vis­i­tors to the exhib­it lean their elbows on the bar and place their hands on their ears. The sound is then con­duct­ed through their arms to their skulls where they can both hear and feel the moment,” the moment that birthed that “New World” — in not just the polit­i­cal sense but the tech­no­log­i­cal one, and many oth­ers besides — in which we still live today.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Peter Jackson’s New Film on World War I Fea­tures Incred­i­ble Dig­i­tal­ly-Restored Footage From the Front Lines: Get a Glimpse

Watch World War I Unfold in a 6 Minute Time-Lapse Film: Every Day From 1914 to 1918

The Great War: Video Series Will Doc­u­ment How WWI Unfold­ed, Week-by-Week, for the Next 4 Years

The First Col­or Pho­tos From World War I: The Ger­man Front

British Actors Read Poignant Poet­ry from World War I

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.

A Japanese Illustrated History of America (1861): Features George Washington Punching Tigers, John Adams Slaying Snakes & Other Fantastic Scenes

“George Wash­ing­ton (with bow and arrow) pic­tured along­side the God­dess of Amer­i­ca”

Though I’m Amer­i­can myself, I always learn the most about Amer­i­ca when I look out­side it. When I want to hear my home­land described or see it reflect­ed, I seek out the per­spec­tive of any­one oth­er than my fel­low Amer­i­cans. Giv­en that I live in Korea, such per­spec­tives aren’t hard to come by, and every day here I learn some­thing new — real or imag­ined — about the Unit­ed States. But Japan, the next coun­try over to the east, has a longer and arguably rich­er tra­di­tion of Amer­i­ca-describ­ing. And judg­ing by Osanae­to­ki Bankokubanashi (童絵解万国噺), an 1861 book by writer Kana­ga­ki Robun and artist Uta­gawa Yoshi­to­ra, it cer­tain­ly has a more fan­tas­ti­cal one. “Here is George Wash­ing­ton (with bow and arrow) pic­tured along­side the God­dess of Amer­i­ca,” writes his­to­ri­an of Japan Nick Kapur in a Twit­ter thread fea­tur­ing selec­tions from the book.

“George Wash­ing­ton defend­ing his wife ‘Car­ol’ from a British offi­cial”

His­to­ry does record Wash­ing­ton hav­ing prac­ticed archery in his youth, among oth­er pop­u­lar sports of the day, and the image of the God­dess of Amer­i­ca does look like a faint­ly Japan­ese ver­sion of Colum­bia, the his­tor­i­cal female per­son­i­fi­ca­tion of the Unit­ed States.

The next image Kaur posts shows Christo­pher Colum­bus report­ing his dis­cov­ery of Amer­i­ca to Queen Isabel­la of Spain. “So far, kin­da nor­mal,” but then comes a bit of artis­tic license: a scene from the Amer­i­can Rev­o­lu­tion in which we see “George Wash­ing­ton defend­ing his wife ‘Car­ol’ from a British offi­cial named ‘Asura’ (same char­ac­ters as the Bud­dhist deity).” Oth­er illus­trat­ed events from ear­ly Amer­i­can his­to­ry include “Wash­ing­ton’s “sec­ond-in-com­mand” John Adams bat­tling an enor­mous snake,” “the incred­i­bly jacked Ben­jamin Franklin fir­ing a can­non that he holds in his bare hands, while John Adams directs him where to fire,” and “George Wash­ing­ton straight-up punch­ing a tiger.”

“George Wash­ing­ton straight-up punch­ing a tiger”

The found­ing of the Unit­ed States, as Kana­ga­ki and Uta­gawa saw it, seems to have required the defeat of many a fear­some beast, includ­ing a giant snake that eats Adams’ moth­er and against which Adams must then team up with an eagle to slay. What truth we can find here may be metaphor­i­cal in nature: even in the mid-19th cen­tu­ry, the world still saw Amer­i­ca as a vast, wild con­ti­nent just wait­ing to enrich those brave and strong enough to sub­due it. Glob­al inter­est in the still-new repub­lic also ran par­tic­u­lar­ly high at that time, as evi­denced by the pop­u­lar­i­ty of pub­li­ca­tions like Alex­is de Toc­queville’s Democ­ra­cy in Amer­i­ca (which still offers an insight­ful out­sider’s per­spec­tive on Amer­i­ca), first pub­lished in 1835 and 1840.

“Togeth­er, John Adams and the eagle kill the enor­mous snake that ate his Mom. The pow­er of team­work!!!”

Japan, long a closed coun­try, had also begun to take a keen inter­est in the out­side world: Amer­i­can Com­modore Matthew Per­ry and his war­ships, filled with tech­nol­o­gy then unimag­in­able to the Japan­ese, had arrived in 1853 with an intent to open Japan’s ports to trade. In 1868 the Mei­ji Restora­tion would con­sol­i­date impe­r­i­al rule in the coun­try and open it to the world, but Osanae­to­ki Bankokubanashi, which you can read in its entire­ty in dig­i­tized form at Wase­da Unver­si­ty’s web site, came out sev­en years before that. At that time, the likes of Kana­ga­ki and Uta­gawa, rely­ing on sec­ond-hand sources, could still thrill their coun­try­men — none of whom had any more direct expe­ri­ence of Amer­i­ca than they did — with tales of the grotesque crea­tures, vile oppres­sors, hero­ic rebels, and guid­ing god­dess­es to be found just on the oth­er side of the Pacif­ic Ocean.

For more images, see Nick Kapur’s twit­ter stream here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What Hap­pens When a Japan­ese Wood­block Artist Depicts Life in Lon­don in 1866, Despite Nev­er Hav­ing Set Foot There

A Won­der­ful­ly Illus­trat­ed 1925 Japan­ese Edi­tion of Aesop’s Fables by Leg­endary Children’s Book Illus­tra­tor Takeo Takei

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

Hand-Col­ored Pho­tographs from 19th Cen­tu­ry Japan: 110 Images Cap­ture the Wan­ing Days of Tra­di­tion­al Japan­ese Soci­ety

Vin­tage 1930s Japan­ese Posters Artis­ti­cal­ly Mar­ket the Won­ders of Trav­el

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.

NASA Digitizes 20,000 Hours of Audio from the Historic Apollo 11 Mission: Stream Them Free Online

When we think of the Apol­lo mis­sions, we tend to think of images, espe­cial­ly those broad­cast on tele­vi­sion dur­ing the Apol­lo 11 moon land­ing in 1969. And if we think of the sounds of Apol­lo, what comes more quick­ly to mind — indeed, what sound in human his­to­ry could come more quick­ly to mind — than Neil Arm­strong’s “one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind” line spo­ken on that same mis­sion? But that’s just one small piece of the total amount of audio record­ings made dur­ing the Apol­lo pro­gram, which ran from the mid-1960s to the ear­ly 1970s. Now, with near­ly 20,000 hours of them dig­i­tized, they’ve begun to be made avail­able for lis­ten­ing and down­load­ing at the Inter­net Archive.

“After the Apol­lo mis­sions end­ed, most of the audio tapes even­tu­al­ly made their way to the Nation­al Archives and Records Admin­is­tra­tion build­ing in Col­lege Park, Mary­land,” writes Astron­o­my’s Cather­ine Mey­ers. But even after get­ting all the record­ings in one place (eas­i­er said than done giv­en the vast size of the archives in which they resided), a much larg­er chal­lenge loomed.

“The exist­ing tapes could be played only on a machine called a Sound­Scriber, a big beige and green con­trap­tion com­plete with vac­u­um tubes. NASA had two machines, but the first was can­ni­bal­ized for parts to make the sec­ond one run.”

Refur­bish­ing the very last Sound­Scriber to play these 30-track tapes required the help of a retired tech­ni­cian, and then the research team need­ed to “play all 30 tracks at once to min­i­mize the time required to dig­i­tize them, as well as to avoid dam­ag­ing the almost 50-year-old tapes by play­ing them over and over.” What with the 50th anniver­sary of the Apol­lo 11 moon land­ing approach­ing next sum­mer — and with First Man, Damien Chazelle’s biopic of Neil Arm­strong cur­rent­ly in the­aters — NASA has cleared that mis­sion’s audio record­ings for pub­lic release.

You can lis­ten to the Apol­lo 11 tapes direct­ly at the Inter­net Archive, or you can make your way through them at Explore Apol­lo, a site designed by stu­dents at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Texas at Dal­las that high­lights the most his­tor­i­cal­ly sig­nif­i­cant of the thou­sands of hours of audio record­ed dur­ing Apol­lo 11: not just Arm­strong’s first step, but the launch from Kennedy Space Cen­ter, the lunar land­ing itself, and the astro­nauts’ walk on the moon’s sur­face. But space explo­ration is about much more than astro­nauts, as you’ll soon find out if you spend much time at the Inter­net Archive’s col­lec­tion of Apol­lo 11 record­ings, on which appear not just Neil Arm­strong, Buzz Aldrin, and Michael Collins, but the hun­dreds and hun­dreds of oth­er NASA per­son­nel who made the moon land­ing pos­si­ble. We may nev­er have heard their names before, but now we can final­ly hear their voic­es.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the Orig­i­nal TV Cov­er­age of the His­toric Apol­lo 11 Moon Land­ing: Record­ed on July 20, 1969

Hear the Declas­si­fied, Eerie “Space Music” Heard Dur­ing the Apol­lo 10 Mis­sion (1969)

8,400 Stun­ning High-Res Pho­tos From the Apol­lo Moon Mis­sions Are Now Online

NASA Puts 400+ His­toric Exper­i­men­tal Flight Videos on YouTube

The Best of NASA Space Shut­tle Videos (1981–2010)

NASA Puts Online a Big Col­lec­tion of Space Sounds, and They’re Free to Down­load and Use

NASA Releas­es a Mas­sive Online Archive: 140,000 Pho­tos, Videos & Audio Files Free to Search and Down­load

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.

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast