The Ancient Romans First Committed the Sartorial Crime of Wearing Socks with Sandals, Archaeological Evidence Suggests

Image via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Of all sar­to­r­i­al crimes, none require quite so much brazen­ness — or sim­ple obliv­i­ous­ness — as the wear­ing of socks with san­dals. But unlike most wide­ly dis­dained fash­ions, which usu­al­ly tend to have enjoyed their hey­day two or three decades ago, the socks-and-san­dals com­bi­na­tion has deep his­tor­i­cal roots. And those roots, so 21st-cen­tu­ry researchers have found out, go much deep­er than most of us may have expect­ed. “Evi­dence from an archae­o­log­i­cal dig has found,” wrote Tele­graph sci­ence cor­re­spon­dent Richard Alleyne in 2012, “that legion­naires wore socks with san­dals” — ancient Roman legion­naires, that is. “Rust on a nail from a Roman san­dal found in new­ly dis­cov­ered ruins in North York­shire appears to con­tain fibres which could sug­gest that a sock-type gar­ment was being worn.”

“You don’t imag­ine Romans in socks,” Alleyne quot­ed the archae­ol­o­gist head­ing the cul­tur­al her­itage team on site as say­ing,” but I am sure they would have been pret­ty keen to get hold of some as soon as autumn came along.”

As with any new dis­cov­ery about life in the past, this changes the way enthu­si­asts of the peri­od have gone about re-cre­at­ing their favorite ele­ments of it: take, for instance, her­itage edu­ca­tor and crafter Sal­ly Point­er. “Point­er has been enam­ored with the ancient world since she was a kid,” writes Atlas Obscu­ra’s Jes­si­ca Leigh Hes­ter, “when she cooked up plans for potions, devices, and craft projects — all with the goal of under­stand­ing how things came to be.”

Image by David Jack­son via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Look­ing to socks worn in ancient Egypt (see above), Point­er makes her own ver­sions of these “cheer­ful­ly striped” socks using a tech­nique called naal­bind­ing, “which is some­times con­sid­ered a pre­cur­sor to two-nee­dle knit­ting and involves loop­ing yarn on a sin­gle nee­dle,” and in this case mak­ing each sock­’s two toes sep­a­rate­ly and then join­ing them togeth­er. Should more evi­dence emerge about the tech­niques and styles of the socks Romans seem to have worn under their san­dals, Point­er and mak­ers like her will no doubt be the first to make use of them. But for now, we need only make one impor­tant revi­sion to the his­tor­i­cal record: “Britons may be famous for their lack of fash­ion sense and Ital­ians for their style,” as the sub-head­line of Alleyne’s piece puts it, “but it appears we may have inher­it­ed one of our biggest sar­to­r­i­al crimes from the Romans.”

via Tele­graph/Atlas Obscu­ra

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Styl­ish 2,000-Year-Old Roman Shoe Found in a Well

Rome Reborn: Take a Vir­tu­al Tour of Ancient Rome, Cir­ca 320 C.E.

Ani­ma­tion Gives You a Glimpse of What Life Was Like for Teenagers in Ancient Rome

The Ancient Egyp­tians Wore Fash­ion­able Striped Socks, New Pio­neer­ing Imag­ing Tech­nol­o­gy Imag­ing Reveals

How Women Got Dressed in the 14th & 18th Cen­turies: Watch the Very Painstak­ing Process Get Cin­e­mat­i­cal­ly Recre­at­ed

Get­ting Dressed Dur­ing World War I: A Fas­ci­nat­ing Look at How Sol­diers, Nurs­ers & Oth­ers Dressed Dur­ing the Great War

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.

Discover the Ingenious Typewriter That Prints Musical Notation: The Keaton Music Typewriter Patented in 1936

Noth­ing could seem more ordi­nary to any­one who has grown up with a musi­cian in the house, or tak­en music class­es them­selves, than sheaves of sheet music: quar­ter, half, and whole notes trip­ping through order­ly staffs in chords, arpeg­gios, and melodies. But the process of mak­ing those sheets of music is prob­a­bly far less famil­iar to most of us. Music print­ing his­to­ry, as the site Music Print­ing His­to­ry shows, par­al­lels book print­ing, but uses the tech­nolo­gies dif­fer­ent­ly, from wood­block to lith­o­g­ra­phy to pho­to­graph­ic repro­duc­tion to per­haps a rarely seen method—the music type­writer.

These inge­nious machines do exact­ly what it sounds like they do, in type­writer-like forms we’ll rec­og­nize and oth­er forms we will not. The first patent for such a device, filed in 1885 by Charles Spiro, shows an object resem­bling a sewing machine.

The next inven­tion, first patent­ed by F. Dogilbert in 1906, resem­bles a mechan­i­cal engrav­ing machine—and indeed, that’s more or less what it was. By con­trast, the 1946 Musicwriter, invent­ed by Cecil S. Effin­ger, looks just like an ear­ly IBM type­writer with a QWERTY key­board. The next ver­sion of the machine was, in fact, a word proces­sor made by IBM.

One inven­tion Music Print­ing His­to­ry does not men­tion was made by a woman, Miss Lil­lian Pavey, in 1961. In the British Pathé news­reel film above, you can see her type­writer in action as she tran­scribes music from a record in real time. In-between the ear­li­est music type­writ­ers, which were not mass-mar­ket­ed to con­sumers, and IBM’s slick, 1988 Musicwriter II, which was, there is the odd Keaton Music Type­writer, first patent­ed with 14 keys in 1936, then again in 1953 in a 33-key ver­sion.

See the Keaton’s clunky oper­a­tion at the top of the post. It looks a lit­tle like a seis­mo­graph or lie detec­tor machine with a semi­cir­cu­lar dou­ble ring of keys (in the 33-key design) in the cen­ter of a met­al car­riage. (See the orig­i­nal patent below.) Con­trary to the Pathé newsman’s claim that no one had suc­ceed­ed in mak­ing a work­ing music type­writer, the Keaton and oth­er mod­els to fol­low in the 40s and 50s sold, though not in large quan­ti­ties, and “made it eas­i­er for pub­lish­ers, edu­ca­tors, and oth­er musi­cians to pro­duce music copies in quan­ti­ty.” Typed sheet music could eas­i­ly be mass-repro­duced by pho­tog­ra­phy.

Nonethe­less, Music Print­ing His­to­ry notes, “com­posers… pre­ferred to write the music out by hand.” The type­writer was main­ly offered as a tool for mechan­i­cal repro­duc­tion, not spon­ta­neous com­po­si­tion. Com­put­ers have changed things such that com­posers seem to have the same kinds of debates about hand­writ­ing vers­es dig­i­tal as writ­ers do. But where the type­writer is still a pow­er­ful sym­bol of lit­er­ary art—for some an instru­ment as dis­tinc­tive and wor­thy of study as the gui­tars of rock ‘n’ roll greats—the music type­writer is an odd­i­ty, a mechan­i­cal curios­i­ty no one asso­ciates with cre­ation.

Yet, as “the most vin­tage and won­der­ful­ly imprac­ti­cal thing ever,” as Clas­sic Fm dubs the device, unwieldy machines like the Keaton remain high on the list of cool, quirky inven­tions its most like­ly cus­tomers did­n’t real­ly seem to need.

via Boing Boing

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Behold Friedrich Nietzsche’s Curi­ous Type­writer, the “Malling-Hansen Writ­ing Ball”

The Endur­ing Ana­log Under­world of Gramer­cy Type­writer

Con­serve the Sound, an Online Muse­um Pre­serves the Sounds of Past Technologies–from Type­writ­ers, Elec­tric Shavers and Cas­sette Recorders, to Cam­eras & Clas­sic Nin­ten­do

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

How Zora Neale Hurston & Eleanor Roosevelt Helped Create the First Realistic African American Baby Doll (1951)

In the 1930s and 40s, child psy­chol­o­gists Ken­neth and Mamie Clark found that very young black chil­dren in the U.S. usu­al­ly chose dolls with lighter skin col­ors when giv­en a choice. The find­ings sug­gest­ed that the chil­dren had inter­nal­ized dom­i­nant prej­u­dices against them “by the time they reached nurs­ery school,” notes the Nation­al Muse­um of Play. “These stud­ies played an impor­tant role in the NAACP’s bat­tle in the 1950s to end seg­re­ga­tion in pub­lic schools.”

What often goes unre­marked in accounts of this research is that at the time “almost all of the African Amer­i­can dolls on the mar­ket were mod­eled after racist stereo­types,” as Emi­ly Tem­ple notes in an arti­cle on LitHub draw­ing on the work of his­to­ri­an Gor­don Pat­ter­son. “Those that weren’t” car­i­ca­tures “were just white dolls that had been paint­ed brown.” This had been the case for two cen­turies, as Col­lec­tors Week­ly explains. Black chil­dren had been inter­nal­iz­ing racism—learning to asso­ciate pos­i­tive attrib­ut­es with white dolls and neg­a­tive attrib­ut­es with black dolls.

But those chil­dren (and their par­ents) had also been reject­ing the racist car­i­ca­tures and forms of era­sure on offer. Tem­ple writes of how one white woman, Sara Lee Creech “noticed two black chil­dren play­ing with white dolls in a car out­side of a post office in Belle Glade, Flori­da.” She felt that they should have toys that rep­re­sent­ed their expe­ri­ence as well. Already a social jus­tice war­rior, as they say—“active in the women’s move­ments since the mid 1930s” and help­ing to found “an Inter­ra­cial Coun­cil in Belle Glade”—Creech decid­ed she would cre­ate a doll that “would rep­re­sent the beau­ty and diver­si­ty of black chil­dren.”

If this “sounds a lit­tle white savior‑y,” writes Tem­ple, “I’m with you,” but there’s much more to the sto­ry. Creech sub­mit­ted the idea to her friend Zora Neale Hurston, pio­neer­ing ethno­g­ra­ph­er of African Amer­i­can cul­ture and pre­mier nov­el­ist of the Harlem Renais­sance. Hurston “was enthu­si­as­tic about the project” and, in turn, pledged to “show pic­tures of the doll to the ‘well known and influ­en­tial mem­bers’ of the black com­mu­ni­ty with whom she had con­nec­tions.”

In 1950, Hurston wrote to Creech in praise of her inten­tion to “meet our long­ing for under­stand­ing of us as we real­ly are, and not as some would have us.” At the same time, Creech’s friend Maxe­da von Hesse brought Eleanor Roo­sevelt onto the project, who enthu­si­as­ti­cal­ly sup­port­ed it as well, going so far as to host a tea with Mary Bethune, Ralph Bunche, and Jack­ie Robin­son, among oth­er influ­en­tial fig­ures, “to con­sult on the appro­pri­ate skin.”

The Ide­al Toy Com­pa­ny—found­ed by the cre­ators of the first mass-pro­duced Ted­dy Bear—took on the enter­prise of man­u­fac­tur­ing the doll, named Sara Lee, sell­ing the toy between 1951 and 1953. It was the first attempt to mass-mar­ket a real­is­tic African Amer­i­can baby doll. She first appeared in the 1951 Sears Roe­buck Christ­mas Cat­a­log. Major mag­a­zines like Esquire, Life, Time, Ebony, and Newsweek announced the doll’s arrival, but sales were even­tu­al­ly dis­ap­point­ing due to man­u­fac­tur­ing flaws.

The demand, how­ev­er, had always been there. Film­mak­er Saman­tha Knowles and doll col­lec­tors like Debra Britt and Deb­bie Behan Gar­rett describe their expe­ri­ences with the scarci­ty of black dolls on the mar­ket. Dur­ing her child­hood in the 1950s and 60s, Gar­rett remarks, “black dolls were just not read­i­ly avail­able, and those that were avail­able, my moth­er felt were not true rep­re­sen­ta­tions of black peo­ple. So all of my dolls were white.” (In his arti­cle, Pat­ter­son cites Toni Mor­rison’s The Bluest Eye as the clas­si­cal­ly trag­ic lit­er­ary treat­ment of the sit­u­a­tion.)

Even after the brief intro­duc­tion of the Sara Lee doll, Gar­ret­t’s expe­ri­ence con­tin­ued to be that of most back chil­dren. As the Muse­um of Play notes, it wouldn’t be until 1968 that major com­pa­nies would again mass-mar­ket black dolls, start­ing with Barbie’s friend Christie. That year also saw the release of “Baby Nan­cy,writes Gar­rett, made by new­ly-found­ed black-owned doll com­pa­ny Shin­dana toys, which became “the nation’s largest man­u­fac­tur­er of black dolls and games.”

Read more at LitHub about how Zora Neale Hurston, Eleanor Roo­sevelt, and an unknown activist in the late 1940s and ear­ly 50s first opened the door to a more inclu­sive toy mar­ket that treat­ed its cus­tomers more equal­ly. Using com­mer­cial means to effect social change may remain a debat­able tac­tic, but there’s no ques­tion that pos­i­tive cul­tur­al rep­re­sen­ta­tion mat­ters for children’s devel­op­ment. Inten­tion­al or oth­er­wise, exclu­sion and stereo­typ­ing cause real harm. As Deb­bie Gar­rett puts it, “if black chil­dren are force-fed that white is bet­ter, or if that’s all that they are exposed to, then they might start to think, ‘What is wrong with me?’”

via LitHub

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Zora Neal Hurston Wrote a Book About Cud­jo Lewis, the Last Sur­vivor of the Atlantic Slave Trade, and It’s Final­ly Get­ting Pub­lished 87 Years Lat­er

Down­load Dig­i­tized Copies of The Negro Trav­el­ers’ Green Book, the Pre-Civ­il Rights Guide to Trav­el­ing Safe­ly in the U.S. (1936–66)

Actors from The Wire Star in a Short Film Adap­ta­tion of Zora Neale Hurston’s “The Gild­ed Six-Bits” (2001)

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

To Help Digitize and Preserve the Sound of Stradivarius Violins, a City in Italy Has Gone Silent

Image by Mark Ordonez, via Flickr Com­mons

We all have respect, even awe, for the name Stradi­var­ius, even those of us who have nev­er held a vio­lin, let alone played one. The vio­lins — as well as vio­las, cel­los, and oth­er string instru­ments, includ­ing gui­tars — made by mem­bers of the Stradi­vari fam­i­ly 300 years ago have become sym­bols of pure son­ic qual­i­ty, still not quite replic­a­ble with even 21st-cen­tu­ry tech­nol­o­gy, with rar­i­ty and prices to match. But to tru­ly under­stand the pre­cious­ness of the Stradi­var­ius, look not to the auc­tion house but to the north­ern Ital­ian city of Cre­mona, home of the Museo del Vio­li­no and its col­lec­tion of some of the best-pre­served exam­ples of the 650 sur­viv­ing Stradi­var­ius instru­ments in the world.

“Cre­mona is home to the work­shops of some of the world’s finest instru­ment mak­ers, includ­ing Anto­nio Stradi­vari, who in the 17th and 18th cen­turies pro­duced some of the finest vio­lins and cel­los ever made,” writes The New York Times’ Max Par­adiso.

“The city is get­ting behind an ambi­tious project to dig­i­tal­ly record the sounds of the Stradi­var­ius instru­ments for pos­ter­i­ty, as well as oth­ers by Amati and Guarneri del Gesù, two oth­er famous Cre­mona crafts­men. And that means being qui­et.” It’s all to help the ambi­tious record­ing project now cre­at­ing the Stradi­var­ius Sound Bank, “a data­base stor­ing all the pos­si­ble tones that four instru­ments select­ed from the Museo del Violino’s col­lec­tion can pro­duce.”

This requires great efforts on the part of the engi­neers and the per­form­ers, the lat­ter of whom have to play hun­dreds of scales and arpeg­gios (exam­ples of which you can hear embed­ded in The New York Times arti­cle) on these stag­ger­ing­ly valu­able instru­ments. But the peo­ple of Cre­mona have to coop­er­ate, too: in the area around the Museo del Vio­li­no’s audi­to­ri­um where the Stradi­var­ius Sound Bank is record­ing, “the sound of a car engine, or a woman walk­ing in high heels, pro­duces vibra­tions that run under­ground and rever­ber­ate in the micro­phones, mak­ing the record­ing worth­less.” And so Cre­mon­a’s may­or, also the pres­i­dent of the Stradi­var­ius Foun­da­tion, “allowed the streets around the muse­um to be closed for five weeks, and appealed to peo­ple in the city to keep it down.”

Few of us alive today have heard the sound of a Stradi­var­ius in per­son, but that num­ber will shrink fur­ther still in future gen­er­a­tions. It’s to do with the very nature of these cen­turies-old instru­ments which, no mat­ter what kind of efforts go toward mak­ing them playable, still seem to have a finite lifes­pan. “We pre­serve and restore them,” Par­adiso quotes Museo del Vio­li­no cura­tor Faus­to Cac­cia­tori as say­ing, “but after they reach a cer­tain age, they become too frag­ile to be played and they ‘go to sleep,’ so to speak.” The day will pre­sum­ably come when the last Stradi­var­ius goes to sleep, but by that time the sounds they made will still be wide awake in their dig­i­tized sec­ond life. And we can be cer­tain, at least, that future gen­er­a­tions will think of a musi­cal use for them that we can no more imag­ine now than Anto­nio Stradi­vari could have in his day.

via The New York Times

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Why Stradi­var­ius Vio­lins Are Worth Mil­lions

What Makes the Stradi­var­ius Spe­cial? It Was Designed to Sound Like a Female Sopra­no Voice, With Notes Sound­ing Like Vow­els, Says Researcher

Why Vio­lins Have F‑Holes: The Sci­ence & His­to­ry of a Remark­able Renais­sance Design

Musi­cian Plays the Last Stradi­var­ius Gui­tar in the World, the “Sabionari” Made in 1679

Watch Price­less 17-Cen­tu­ry Stradi­var­ius and Amati Vio­lins Get Tak­en for a Test Dri­ve by Pro­fes­sion­al Vio­lin­ists

Musi­cian Plays the Last Stradi­var­ius Gui­tar in the World, the “Sabionari” Made in 1679

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.

Vintage Geological Maps Get Turned Into 3D Topographical Wonders

What good is an old-fash­ioned map in the age of apps?

One need not be a moun­taineer, geo­sci­en­tist, or civ­il engi­neer to get the topo­graph­i­cal lay of the land with a speed and accu­ra­cy that would have blown Lewis and Clark’s minds’ right through the top of the lynx and otter top­pers they took to wear­ing after their stan­dard issue army lids wore out.

There’s still some­thing to be said for the old ways, though.

Graph­ic design­er Scott Rein­hard has all the lat­est tech­no­log­i­cal advances at his dis­pos­al, but it took com­bin­ing them with hun­dred-year-old maps for him to get a tru­ly 3‑D appre­ci­a­tion for loca­tions he has vis­it­ed around the Unit­ed States, as well as his child­hood home.

A son of Indi­ana, Rein­hard told Colossal’s Kate Sierzputows­ki that he found some Grand Teton-type excite­ment in the noto­ri­ous­ly flat Hoosier State once he start­ed mar­ry­ing offi­cial nation­al geospa­tial data to vin­tage map designs:

 When I began ren­der­ing the ele­va­tion data for the state, the sto­ry of the land emerged. The glac­i­ers that reced­ed across the north­ern half of the state after the last ice age scraped and gouged and shaped the land in a way that is spec­tac­u­lar­ly clear…I felt empow­ered by the abil­i­ty to col­lect and process the vast amounts of infor­ma­tion freely avail­able, and cre­ate beau­ti­ful images.

(The gov­ern­ment shut-down has not dam­aged the accu­ra­cy of Reinhard’s maps, but the U.S. Geo­log­i­cal Survey’s web­site does warn the pub­lic that the effects of any earth­quakes or oth­er force majeure occur­ring dur­ing this black-out peri­od will not imme­di­ate­ly be reflect­ed in their topos.)

(Nor are they able to respond to any inquiries, which puts a damper on hol­i­day week­end plans for mak­ing salt dough maps, anoth­er Hoosier state fave, at least in 1974…)

As writer Jason Kot­tke notes, the shad­ows the moun­tains cast on the mar­gins of Reinhard’s maps are a par­tic­u­lar­ly effec­tive opti­cal trick.

You can see more of Reinhard’s dig­i­tal­ly enhanced maps from the late 19th and ear­ly 20th-cen­tu­ry, and order prints in his online shop.

via Kot­tke/Colos­sal

Relat­ed Con­tent:

View and Down­load Near­ly 60,000 Maps from the U.S. Geo­log­i­cal Sur­vey (USGS)

Down­load 67,000 His­toric Maps (in High Res­o­lu­tion) from the Won­der­ful David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion

The His­to­ry of Car­tog­ra­phy, “the Most Ambi­tious Overview of Map Mak­ing Ever Under­tak­en,” Is Free Online

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  See her onstage in New York City in Feb­ru­ary as host of  The­ater of the Apes book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Hear the Sounds of the Actual Instruments for Which Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, and Handel Originally Composed Their Music

When we go to a con­cert of orches­tral music today, we hear most every piece played on the same range of instru­ments — instru­ments we know and love, to be sure, but instru­ments designed and oper­at­ed with­in quite strict para­me­ters. The pleas­ing qual­i­ty of the sounds they pro­duce may make us believe that we’re hear­ing every­thing just as the com­pos­er orig­i­nal­ly intend­ed, but we usu­al­ly aren’t. To hear what the likes of Mozart, Beethoven, Han­del, and Haydn would have had in their head as they com­posed back in their day, you’d have to have an orches­tra go so far as to play it not with mod­ern instru­ments, but the same ones orches­tras used back in those com­posers’ life­times.

Enter Lon­don’s Orches­tra of the Age of the Enlight­en­ment, which takes its name from the era of the late 18th cen­tu­ry from which it draws most of its reper­toire — and from which it draws most of its instru­ments, a vital part of its mis­sion to achieve peri­od-accu­rate sound. You can read more about the OAE’s instru­ments on its web site, or bet­ter yet, head over to its Youtube chan­nel to hear those instru­ments demon­strat­ed and their his­tor­i­cal back­grounds explained. Here we have four of the OAE’s videos: on the clar­inet they use for Mozart’s Clar­inet Con­cer­to, on the con­tra­bas­soon they use for Beethoven’s Fifth Sym­pho­ny and Hayd­n’s Cre­ation, the organ they use for Han­del’s Organ Con­cer­to, and an oboe like the one Haydn would have known.

“We love the music we play,” says OAE dou­ble bassist Cecelia Brugge­mey­er, “and we love ask­ing ques­tions about the music we play.” So when you use an instru­ment like the 300-year-old bass she shows off in anoth­er video, “you sud­den­ly find it does­n’t nec­es­sar­i­ly do the things a mod­ern instru­ment will do, and that sets up a whole train of ques­tions.” These include, “What would Bach have heard? How might the play­ers in his day have played? What does that mean for us, play­ing today? What does that mean for live music now, with this his­toric infor­ma­tion? We’re not try­ing to re-cre­ate the past. We’re try­ing to make some­thing that’s excit­ing now but using what was from the past” — not a bad metaphor, come to think of it, for the entire enter­prise of clas­si­cal-music per­for­mance in the 21st cen­tu­ry.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What Ancient Greek Music Sound­ed Like: Hear a Recon­struc­tion That is ‘100% Accu­rate’

Watch a Musi­cian Impro­vise on a 500-Year-Old Music Instru­ment, The Car­il­lon

Vis­it an Online Col­lec­tion of 61,761 Musi­cal Instru­ments from Across the World

Musi­cian Plays the Last Stradi­var­ius Gui­tar in the World, the “Sabionari” Made in 1679

Hear a 9,000 Year Old Flute—the World’s Old­est Playable Instrument—Get Played Again

The Musi­cal Instru­ments in Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights Get Brought to Life, and It Turns Out That They Sound “Painful” and “Hor­ri­ble”

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.

An Ancient Egyptian Homework Assignment from 1800 Years Ago: Some Things Are Truly Timeless

Every gen­er­a­tion of school­child­ren no doubt first assumes home­work to be a his­tor­i­cal­ly dis­tinct form of pun­ish­ment, devel­oped express­ly to be inflict­ed on them. But the par­ents of today’s mis­er­able home­work-doers also, of course, had to do home­work them­selves, as did their par­ents’ par­ents. It turns out that you can go back sur­pris­ing­ly far in his­to­ry and still find exam­ples of the men­ace of home­work, as far back as ancient Egypt, a civ­i­liza­tion from which one exam­ple of an out-of-class­room assign­ment will go on dis­play at the British Library’s exhi­bi­tion Writ­ing: Mak­ing Your Mark, which opens this spring.

“Begin­ning with the ori­gins of writ­ing in Egypt, Mesopotamia, Chi­na and the Amer­i­c­as, the exhi­bi­tion will explore the many man­i­fes­ta­tions, pur­pos­es and forms of writ­ing, demon­strat­ing how writ­ing has con­tin­u­al­ly enabled human progress and ques­tion­ing the role it plays in an increas­ing­ly dig­i­tal world,” says the British Library’s press release.

“From an ancient wax tablet con­tain­ing a schoolchild’s home­work as they strug­gle to learn their Greek let­ters to a Chi­nese type­writer from the 1970s, Writ­ing: Mak­ing Your Mark will show­case over 30 dif­fer­ent writ­ing sys­tems to reveal that every mark made – whether on paper or on a screen – is the con­tin­u­a­tion of a 5,000 year sto­ry and is a step towards deter­min­ing how writ­ing will be used in the future.”

That wax tablet, pre­served since the sec­ond cen­tu­ry A.D., bears Greek words that Live­science’s Mindy Weis­berg­er describes as “famil­iar to any kid whose par­ents wor­ry about them falling in with a bad crowd”: “You should accept advice from a wise man only” and “You can­not trust all your friends.” First acquired by the British Library in 1892 but not pub­licly dis­played since the 1970s, the tablet’s sur­face pre­serves “a two-part les­son in Greek that pro­vides a snap­shot of dai­ly life for a pupil attend­ing pri­ma­ry school in Egypt about 1,800 years ago.” Its lines, “copied by this long-ago stu­dent were not just for prac­tic­ing pen­man­ship; they were also intend­ed to impart moral lessons.”

But why Greek? “In the 2nd cen­tu­ry A.D., when this les­son was writ­ten,” writes Smithsonian.com’s Jason Daley, “Egypt had been under Roman rule for almost 200 years fol­low­ing 300 years of Greek and Mace­don­ian rule under the Ptole­my dynasty. Greeks in Egypt held a spe­cial sta­tus below Roman cit­i­zens but high­er than those of Egypt­ian descent. Any edu­cat­ed per­son in the Roman world, how­ev­er, would be expect­ed to know Latin, Greek and — depend­ing on where they lived — local or region­al lan­guages.” It was a bit like the sit­u­a­tion today with the Eng­lish lan­guage, which has become a require­ment for edu­cat­ed peo­ple in a vari­ety of cul­tures — and a sub­ject espe­cial­ly loathed by many a home­work-bur­dened stu­dent the world over.

via Live­science

Relat­ed Con­tent:

You Could Soon Be Able to Text with 2,000 Ancient Egypt­ian Hiero­glyphs

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

The Turin Erot­ic Papyrus: The Old­est Known Depic­tion of Human Sex­u­al­i­ty (Cir­ca 1150 B.C.E.)

The Ancient Egyp­tians Wore Fash­ion­able Striped Socks, New Pio­neer­ing Imag­ing Tech­nol­o­gy Imag­ing Reveals

Muse­um Dis­cov­ers Math Note­book of an 18th-Cen­tu­ry Eng­lish Farm Boy, Adorned with Doo­dles of Chick­ens Wear­ing Pants

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 Strange Dancing Plague of 1518: When Hundreds of People in France Could Not Stop Dancing for Months

If you find your­self think­ing you aren’t a vic­tim of fash­ion, maybe take anoth­er look. Yes, we can con­scious­ly train our­selves to resist trends through force of habit. We can declare our pref­er­ences and stand on prin­ci­ple. But we aren’t con­scious­ly aware of what’s hap­pen­ing in the hid­den turn­ings of our brains. Maybe what we call the uncon­scious has more con­trol over us than we would like to think.

Inex­plic­a­ble episodes of mass obses­sion and com­pul­sion serve as dis­qui­et­ing exam­ples. Mass pan­ics and delu­sions tend to occur, argues author John Waller, “in peo­ple who are under extreme psy­cho­log­i­cal dis­tress, and who believe in the pos­si­bil­i­ty of spir­it pos­ses­sion. All of these con­di­tions were sat­is­fied in Stras­bourg in 1518,” the year the Danc­ing Plague came to the town in Alsace—an invol­un­tary com­mu­nal dance fes­ti­val with dead­ly out­comes.

The event began with one per­son, as you’ll learn in the almost jaun­ty ani­mat­ed BBC video below, a woman known as Frau Trof­fea. One day she began danc­ing in the street. Peo­ple came out of their hous­es and gawked, laughed, and clapped. Then she didn’t stop. She “con­tin­ued to dance, with­out rest­ing, morn­ing, after­noon, and night for six whole days.” Then her neigh­bors joined in. With­in a month, 400 peo­ple were “danc­ing relent­less­ly with­out music or song.”

We might expect that town lead­ers in this late-Medieval peri­od would have declared it a mass pos­ses­sion event and com­menced with exor­cisms or witch burn­ings. Instead, it was said to be a nat­ur­al phe­nom­e­non. Draw­ing on humoral the­o­ry, “local physi­cians blamed it on ‘hot blood,’” History.com’s Evan Andrews writes. They “sug­gest­ed the afflict­ed sim­ply gyrate the fever away. A stage was con­struct­ed and pro­fes­sion­al dancers were brought in. The town even hired a band to pro­vide back­ing music.”

Soon, how­ev­er, bloody and exhaust­ed, peo­ple began dying from strokes and heart attacks. The danc­ing went on for months. It was not a fad. No one was enjoy­ing them­selves. On the con­trary, Waller writes, “con­tem­po­raries were cer­tain that the afflict­ed did not want to dance and the dancers them­selves, when they could, expressed their mis­ery and need for help.” This con­tra­dicts sug­ges­tions they were will­ing mem­bers of a cult, and paints an even dark­er pic­ture of the event.

Cer­tain psy­cho­nauts might see in the 1518 Danc­ing Plague a shared uncon­scious, work­ing some­thing out while drag­ging the poor Stras­bour­gians along behind it. Oth­er, more or less plau­si­ble expla­na­tions have includ­ed ergo­tism, or poi­son­ing “from a psy­chotrop­ic mould that grows on stalks of rye.” How­ev­er, Waller points out, ergot “typ­i­cal­ly cuts off blood sup­ply to the extrem­i­ties mak­ing coor­di­nat­ed move­ment very dif­fi­cult.”

He sug­gests the danc­ing mania came about through the meet­ing of two pri­or con­di­tions: “The city’s poor were suf­fer­ing from severe famine and dis­ease,” and many peo­ple in the region believed they could obtain good health by danc­ing before a stat­ue of Saint Vitus. They also believed, he writes, that “St. Vitus… had the pow­er to take over their minds and inflict a ter­ri­ble, com­pul­sive dance. Once these high­ly vul­ner­a­ble peo­ple began to antic­i­pate the St. Vitus curse they increased the like­li­hood that they’d enter the trance state.”

The mys­tery can­not be defin­i­tive­ly solved, but it does seem that what Waller calls “fer­vent super­nat­u­ral­ism” played a key role, as it has in many mass hys­te­rias, includ­ing “ten such con­ta­gions which had bro­ken out along the Rhine and Moselle rivers since 1374,” as the Pub­lic Domain Review notes. Fur­ther up, see a 1642 engrav­ing based on a 1564 draw­ing by Peter Breughel of anoth­er danc­ing epi­dem­ic which occurred that year in Molen­beek. The 17th cen­tu­ry Ger­man engrav­ing above of a danc­ing epi­dem­ic in a church­yard fea­tures a man hold­ing a sev­ered arm.

We see mass pan­ics and delu­sions around the world, for rea­sons that are rarely clear to schol­ars, psy­chi­a­trists, his­to­ri­ans, anthro­pol­o­gists, and physi­cians dur­ing or after the fact. What is med­ical­ly known as Saint Vitus dance, or Sydenham’s Chorea, has rec­og­nized phys­i­cal caus­es like rheumat­ic fever and occurs in a spe­cif­ic sub­set of the pop­u­la­tion. The his­tor­i­cal Saint Vitus Dance, or Danc­ing Plague, how­ev­er, affect­ed peo­ple indis­crim­i­nate­ly and seems to have been a phe­nom­e­non of mass sug­ges­tion, like many oth­er social-psy­cho­log­i­cal events around the world.

Episodes of epi­dem­ic manias relat­ed to out­mod­ed super­nat­ur­al beliefs can seem espe­cial­ly bizarre, but the mass psy­chol­o­gy of 21st cen­tu­ry west­ern cul­ture includes many episodes of social con­ta­gion and com­pul­sion no less strange, and per­haps no less wide­spread or dead­ly, espe­cial­ly dur­ing times of extreme stress.

via Pub­lic Domain Review

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Oliv­er Sacks Explains the Biol­o­gy of Hal­lu­ci­na­tions: “We See with the Eyes, But with the Brain as Well”

Behold the Mys­te­ri­ous Voyn­ich Man­u­script: The 15th-Cen­tu­ry Text That Lin­guists & Code-Break­ers Can’t Under­stand

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

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

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