An Animated History of Cats: How Over 10,000 Years the Cat Went from Wild Predator to Sofa Sidekick

Dogs sees us as their mas­ters while cats sees us as their slaves. — Anony­mous

The next time your friend’s pet cat sinks its fangs into your wrist, bear in mind that the beast is prob­a­bly still labor­ing under the impres­sion that it’s guard­ing the gra­naries.

Anthro­pol­o­gist Eva-Maria Gei­gl’s ani­mat­ed Ted-Ed Les­son, The His­to­ry of the World Accord­ing to Cats, above, awards spe­cial recog­ni­tion to Unsink­able Sam, a black-and-white ship’s cat who sur­vived three WWII ship­wrecks (on both Axis and Allied sides).

It’s a cute sto­ry, but as far as direct­ing the course of his­to­ry, Felis sil­vestris lybi­ca, a sub­species of wild­cat that can be traced to the Fer­tile Cres­cent some 12,000 years ago, emerges as the true star.

In a Neolith­ic spin of “The Farmer in the Dell,” the troughs and urns in which ancient farm­ers stored sur­plus grain attract­ed mice and rats, who in turn attract­ed these mus­cu­lar, preda­to­ry cats.

They got the job done.

Human and cats’ mutu­al­ly ben­e­fi­cial rela­tion­ship spelled bad news for the rodent pop­u­la­tion, but sur­vival for today’s 600-mil­lion-some domes­tic cats, whose DNA is shock­ing­ly sim­i­lar to that of its pre­his­toric ances­tors.

Hav­ing proved their val­ue to the human pop­u­la­tion in terms of pest con­trol, cats quick­ly found them­selves ele­vat­ed to wel­come com­pan­ions of sol­diers and sailors, cel­e­brat­ed for their abil­i­ty to knock out rope-destroy­ing ver­min, as well as dan­ger­ous ani­mals on the order of snakes and scor­pi­ons.

Thus­ly did cats’ influ­ence spread.

Bastet, the Egypt­ian god­dess of domes­tic­i­ty, wom­en’s secrets, fer­til­i­ty, and child­birth is unmis­tak­ably feline.

Cats draw the char­i­ot of Freya, the Norse god­dess of love.

Their pop­u­lar­i­ty dipped briefly in the Late Mid­dle Ages, when humankind mis­tak­en­ly cred­it­ed cats as the source of the plague. In truth, that scourge was spread by rodents, who ran unchecked after men round­ed up their feline preda­tors for a grue­some slaugh­ter.

Nowa­days, a quick glimpse at Insta­gram is proof enough that cats are back on top.

(Yes, you can haz cheezburg­er with that.)

Dogs may see our ser­vice to them as proof that we are gods, buts cats sure­ly inter­pret the feed­ing and upkeep they receive at human hands as evi­dence they are the ones to be wor­shipped.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Two Cats Keep Try­ing to Get Into a Japan­ese Art Muse­um … and Keep Get­ting Turned Away: Meet the Thwart­ed Felines, Ken-chan and Go-chan

Medieval Cats Behav­ing Bad­ly: Kit­ties That Left Paw Prints … and Peed … on 15th Cen­tu­ry Man­u­scripts

Edward Gorey Talks About His Love Cats & More in the Ani­mat­ed Series, “Goreytelling”

What Hap­pens When a Cat Watch­es Hitchcock’s Psy­cho

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  See her onstage in New York City Jan­u­ary 14 as host of  The­ater of the Apes book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

When Pablo Picasso and Guillaume Apollinaire Were Accused of Stealing the Mona Lisa (1911)

If you vis­it the Lou­vre today, you’ll notice two phe­nom­e­na in par­tic­u­lar: the omnipres­ence of secu­ri­ty, and the throng of vis­i­tors obscur­ing the Mona Lisa. If you’d vis­it­ed just over a cen­tu­ry ago, nei­ther would have been the case. And if you hap­pened to vis­it on August 22nd, 1911, you would­n’t have encoun­tered Leonar­do’s famed por­trait at all. That morn­ing, writes Messy Nessy, “Parisian artist Louis Béroud, famous for paint­ing and sell­ing his copies of famous art­works, walked into the Lou­vre to begin a copy of the Mona Lisa. When he arrived into the Salon Car­ré where the Da Vin­ci had been on dis­play for the past five years, he found four iron pegs and no paint­ing.”

Béroud “the­atri­cal­ly alert­ed the sleepy guards who fum­bled around for sev­er­al hours under the assump­tion the paint­ing might have been bor­rowed for clean­ing or pho­tograph­ing, until it was final­ly con­firmed the Mona Lisa had been stolen.”

The imme­di­ate mea­sures tak­en: “The Lou­vre was closed for an entire week, muse­um admin­is­tra­tors lost their jobs, the French bor­ders were closed as every ship and train was searched and a reward of 25,000 francs was announced for the paint­ing.”

High on the list of sus­pects, thanks to the word of an art thief not involved in the heist named Joseph Géry Pieret: none oth­er than Pablo Picas­so and Guil­laume Apol­li­naire. Con­fess­ing to his habit of pur­loin­ing small items from the Lou­vre, which then took no great pains to pro­tect the cul­tur­al assets with­in its walls, Pieret informed the police that he had sold a cou­ple of small Iber­ian stat­ues to a “painter-friend.” Pieret, writes Art­sy’s Ian Shank, “had left a clue — a nom de plume in one of his pub­lished con­fes­sions, pulled straight from the writ­ings of avant-garde poet Apol­li­naire. (As police would lat­er dis­cov­er, Pieret was in fact the writer’s for­mer sec­re­tary.)”

As the pow­ers that be knew, “Apol­li­naire was a devout mem­ber of Picasso’s mod­ernist entourage la bande de Picas­so — a group of artis­tic fire­brands also known around town as the ‘Wild Men of Paris.’ Here, police believed, was a ring of art thieves sophis­ti­cat­ed enough to swipe the Mona Lisa.” Though the Span­ish-born painter and Ital­ian-born poet had noth­ing to do with the theft of the Mona Lisa, Picas­so had indeed bought those stolen sculp­tures from Pieret, and in a pan­ic near­ly threw them into the Seine.

“Apol­li­naire con­fessed to every­thing,” writes Shank, while Picas­so “wept open­ly in court, hys­ter­i­cal­ly alleg­ing at one point that he had nev­er even met Apol­li­naire. Del­uged with con­tra­dic­to­ry and non­sen­si­cal tes­ti­mo­ny the pre­sid­ing Judge Hen­ri Dri­oux threw out the case, ulti­mate­ly dis­miss­ing both men with lit­tle more than a stern admo­ni­tion.” Two years lat­er, the iden­ti­ty of the real Mona Lisa thief came to light: a Lou­vre employ­ee named Vin­cen­zo Perug­gia (shown right above), who had eas­i­ly smug­gled the can­vas out and kept it in a trunk until such time — so he insist­ed — as he could repa­tri­ate the mas­ter­piece to its, and his, home­land.

All this makes for an enter­tain­ing chap­ter in the his­to­ry of art crime, but if you still believe that Picas­so must have had a hand in the Mona Lisa’s dis­ap­pear­ance, have a look at “All the Evi­dence That Picas­so Actu­al­ly Stole the Mona Lisa.” Com­piled by the Huff­in­g­ton Post’s Sara Boboltz, the list includes such facts as “He was liv­ing in France at the time,” “He’d tech­ni­cal­ly pur­chased stolen art­works before” — those lit­tle Iber­ian sculp­tures — and “He loved art, duh.” None could deny that last point, just as none could deny the Mona Lisa’s endur­ing sta­tus as some­thing of a Holy Grail for art thieves. But what mod­ern-day Perug­gia — or Picas­so, or Apol­li­naire, or as some the­o­ries hold, Béroud — would dare make an attempt on it now?

via Men­tal Floss/Art­sy/Messy Nessy

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Ado­ra­tion of the Mona Lisa Begins with Theft

Mona Lisa Self­ie: A Mon­tage of Social Media Pho­tos Tak­en at the Lou­vre and Put on Insta­gram

Orig­i­nal Por­trait of the Mona Lisa Found Beneath the Paint Lay­ers of da Vinci’s Mas­ter­piece

The Post­cards That Picas­so Illus­trat­ed and Sent to Jean Cocteau, Apol­li­naire & Gertrude Stein

When Ger­man Per­for­mance Artist Ulay Stole Hitler’s Favorite Paint­ing & Hung it in the Liv­ing Room of a Turk­ish Immi­grant Fam­i­ly (1976)

Take a Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty Tour of the World’s Stolen Art

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.

Watch Four Daring Films by Lois Weber, “the Most Important Female Director the American Film Industry Has Known” (1913–1921)

These days, every cinephile can name more than a few women among their favorite liv­ing film­mak­ers: Sofia Cop­po­la, Ava DuVer­nay, Kathryn Bigelow, Jane Cam­pi­on, Agnès Var­da — the list goes on. But if we look far­ther back into cin­e­ma his­to­ry, com­ing up with exam­ples becomes much more dif­fi­cult. There’s Ida Lupino, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, whose The Hitch-Hik­er made her the only female direc­tor of a 1950s film noir, but before her? No name from that ear­ly era is more impor­tant than that of Lois Weber, in some esti­ma­tions “the most impor­tant female direc­tor the Amer­i­can film indus­try has known.”

Or so, any­way, says Weber’s exten­sive Wikipedia entry, part of the rel­a­tive­ly recent effort to res­cue from obscu­ri­ty her vast body of work: a fil­mog­ra­phy esti­mat­ed at between 200 to 400 pic­tures, almost all of them con­sid­ered lost. Weber’s cham­pi­ons empha­size not just her pro­lifi­ca­cy but her bold­ness, not just tech­no­log­i­cal­ly and aes­thet­i­cal­ly — 1913’s Sus­pense, for exam­ple, pio­neered the split-screen tech­nique — but social­ly.

Even in its infan­cy, she used her medi­um to deal with issues like pover­ty, drugs, cap­i­tal pun­ish­ment, women in the work­force, and even con­tra­cep­tion. (In 1915’s Hyp­ocrites, she went as far as to include the first full-frontal female nude scene in motion pic­tures.)

Though born in 1879, well before the advent of cin­e­ma, Weber grew up with a sur­pris­ing­ly suit­able back­ground to pre­pare her for this kind of film­mak­ing. Raised strong­ly reli­gious, she left the fam­i­ly house­hold to take up street-cor­ner evan­ge­lism and church-ori­ent­ed social activism. Ear­ly in the 20th cen­tu­ry she moved from her native Pitts­burgh to New York, where she set her sights on singing and act­ing. “I was con­vinced the the­atri­cal pro­fes­sion need­ed a mis­sion­ary,” she lat­er explained, and hav­ing heard that “the best way to reach them was to become one of them,” she “went on the stage filled with a great desire to con­vert my fel­low­man.”

Weber’s work in the the­ater opened the door to oppor­tu­ni­ties in the then-nascent movie indus­try. By 1914, she could con­fi­dent­ly say in an inter­view that “in mov­ing pic­tures, I have found my life’s work. I find at once an out­let for my emo­tions and my ideals. I can preach to my heart’s con­tent, and with the oppor­tu­ni­ty to write the play, act the lead­ing role and direct the entire pro­duc­tion, if my mes­sage fails to reach some­one, I can blame only myself.” The recent restora­tion of sev­er­al of her sur­viv­ing films has made it pos­si­ble for her mes­sage to reach a cen­tu­ry she nev­er lived to see — and to give their view­ers the chance to eval­u­ate the claims made by film his­to­ri­ans like Antho­ny Slide, who puts her along­side D.W. Grif­fith as “Amer­i­can cin­e­ma’s first gen­uine auteur, a film­mak­er involved in all aspects of pro­duc­tion and one who uti­lized the motion pic­ture to put across her own ideas and philoso­phies.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

103 Essen­tial Films By Female Film­mak­ers: Clue­less, Lost In Trans­la­tion, Ishtar and More

The Ground­break­ing Sil­hou­ette Ani­ma­tions of Lotte Reiniger: Cin­derel­la, Hansel and Gre­tel, and More

A Short Video Intro­duc­tion to Alice Guy-Blaché (1873–1968), the First Female Film Direc­tor & Stu­dio Mogul

Watch The Hitch-Hik­er by Ida Lupino (the Only Female Direc­tor of a 1950s Noir Film)

The First Fem­i­nist Film, Ger­maine Dulac’s The Smil­ing Madame Beudet (1922)

An Ambi­tious List of 1400 Films Made by Female Film­mak­ers

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.

Free: Download Thousands of Ottoman-Era Photographs That Have Been Digitized and Put Online

“Turkey is a geo­graph­i­cal and cul­tur­al bridge between the east and the west,” writes Istan­bul University’s Gönül Bakay. This was so long before Con­stan­tino­ple became Istan­bul, but after the rise of the Ottoman Empire, the region took on a par­tic­u­lar sig­nif­i­cance for Chris­t­ian Europe. “The Turk” became a threat­en­ing and exot­ic fig­ure in the Euro­pean imag­i­na­tion, “shaped by a con­sid­er­able body of lit­er­a­ture, stretch­ing from Christo­pher Mar­lowe to Thomas Car­lyle.” Images of Ottoman Turkey were long drawn from a “mix­ture of fact, fan­ta­sy and fear.”

With the advent of pho­tog­ra­phy in the mid-nine­teenth cen­tu­ry, those images were sup­ple­ment­ed, illus­trat­ed, and coun­tered by prints depict­ing Turk­ish peo­ple both in every­day life cir­cum­stances and in Ori­en­tal­ist pos­es.

In the final decades of the Ottoman Empire, as mod­ern­iza­tion took hold all over Europe, view­ers might encounter pho­tos of women in pos­es rem­i­nis­cent of the Odal­isque and street scenes of bustling, cos­mopoli­tan Con­stan­tino­ple, with signs in Ottoman Turk­ish, Eng­lish, French, Armen­ian, and Greek.

Pho­tos of Enver Pashade fac­to ruler of the Ottoman Empire dur­ing World War I and “high­est-rank­ing per­pe­tra­tor of the Armen­ian geno­cide,” writes Isot­ta Pog­gi at the Getty’s blog—cir­cu­lat­ed along­side images like that below, a group of Turk­ish tourists posed near the Sphinx. These and thou­sands more such pho­tographs of Ottoman Turkey at the turn of the cen­tu­ry and into the first years of the Turk­ish Repub­lic—3,750 dig­i­tized images in total—are now avail­able to view and down­load at the Get­ty Research Insti­tute.

The pho­tos come from French col­lec­tor Pierre de Gig­ord, who acquired them dur­ing his many trav­els through Turkey in the 1980s. They were tak­en by pho­tog­ra­phers, some of whose names are lost to his­to­ry, from all over Europe and the Mediter­ranean, includ­ing Armen­ian pho­tog­ra­phers who played a “cen­tral role,” notes Pog­gi, “in shap­ing Turkey’s nation­al cul­tur­al his­to­ry and col­lec­tive mem­o­ry.” (Read artist Hande Sever’s Get­ty essay on this sub­ject here.) The huge col­lec­tion con­tains “land­mark archi­tec­ture, urban and nat­ur­al land­scape, arche­o­log­i­cal sites of mil­len­nia-old civ­i­liza­tions, and the bustling life of the diverse peo­ple who lived over 100 years ago.”

Despite the loss of mate­ri­al­i­ty in the trans­fer to dig­i­tal, a loss of “for­mat­ting, or sense of scale” that changes the way we expe­ri­ence these pho­tos, they “enable us to learn about the past,” writes Pog­gi, “see­ing Turkey’s diverse soci­ety” as photography’s ear­ly view­ers did, and to bet­ter under­stand the present, “observ­ing how cer­tain sites and peo­ple, as well as social or polit­i­cal issues, have evolved yet still remain the same.” Enter the Pierre de Gig­ord col­lec­tion at the Get­ty here.

via Hyper­al­ler­gic/The Get­ty

Relat­ed Con­tent:

New Archive of Mid­dle East­ern Pho­tog­ra­phy Fea­tures 9,000 Dig­i­tized Images

Venice in Beau­ti­ful Col­or Images 125 Years Ago: The Rial­to Bridge, St. Mark’s Basil­i­ca, Doge’s Palace & More

Tsarist Rus­sia Comes to Life in Vivid Col­or Pho­tographs Tak­en Cir­ca 1905–1915

An Online Gallery of Over 900,000 Breath­tak­ing Pho­tos of His­toric New York City

The Library of Con­gress Makes Thou­sands of Fab­u­lous Pho­tos, Posters & Images Free to Use & Reuse

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

How a Word Enters the Dictionary: A Quick Primer

Giv­en that you’re read­ing this on the Inter­net, we pre­sume you’ll be able to define many of the over 800 words that were added to the Mer­ri­am-Web­ster dic­tio­nary in 2018:

bio­hack­ing

bougie

binge­able

guac

hangry

Lat­inx

mock­tail

zoo­dles

But what about some of the humdingers lex­i­cog­ra­ph­er Kory Stam­per, for­mer asso­ciate edi­tor for Mer­ri­am-Web­ster and author of Word by Word: The Secret Life of Dic­tio­nar­ies, unleash­es in the above video?

pre­scrip­tivism

descrip­tivism

sprachge­fühl

ety­mo­log­i­cal fal­li­cist

(Bonus: bird strike)

And here we thought we were flu­ent in our native tongue. Face palm, to use anoth­er newish entry and an exam­ple of descrip­tivism. (It’s when the dic­tio­nary fol­lows the culture’s lead, accord­ing nov­el­ty its due by offi­cial­ly rec­og­niz­ing words that have entered the par­lance, rather than pre­scrib­ing the way cit­i­zens should be speak­ing.)

To hear Stam­per tell it, dic­tio­nary writ­ing is a dream gig for read­ers as well as word lovers.

Part of every day is spent read­ing, flag­ging any unfa­mil­iar words that may pop up for fur­ther research.

Did teenage slang give rise to it?

Was it born of busi­ness trends or tech indus­try advances?

Stam­per is adamant that lan­guage is not fixed, but rather a liv­ing organ­ism. Words go in and out of fash­ion, and take on mean­ings beyond the ones they sport­ed when first includ­ed in the dic­tio­nary. (Have a look at “extra” to see some evo­lu­tion­ary effects of the Eng­lish lan­guage and back it up with a peek inside the Urban Dic­tio­nary.)

Before a word pass­es dic­tio­nary muster, it must meet three cri­te­ria: it must have crossed into wide­spread use, it seems like­ly to stick around for a while, and it must have some sort of sub­stan­tive mean­ing, as opposed to being known sole­ly for its length (“antidis­es­tab­lish­men­tar­i­an­ism”), or some oth­er struc­tur­al won­der.

“Iouea” con­tains all five reg­u­lar vow­els and no oth­er let­ters. The fact that it exists to describe a genus of sea sponges may seem some­what beside the point to all but marine biol­o­gists.

What new words will enter the lex­i­con in 2019?

Per­haps we should look to the past. We set Merriam-Webster’s Time Trav­el­er dial back 100 years to dis­cov­er the words that debuted in 1919. There’s an abun­dance of good­ies here, some of whose WWI-era con­text has already expand­ed to accom­mo­date mod­ern mean­ing (anti-stress, fan­boy, super­pimp, unbuffered). Read­ers, care to take a stab at fresh­en­ing up some oth­er can­di­dates:

apple-knock­er

buck­shee

cape­skin

culti­gen

game­tophore

inter­ro­gee

micromethod

neu­ro­pro­tec­tive

out­gas

pre­re­turn

putsch

sce­nar­ist

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

The Largest His­tor­i­cal Dic­tio­nary of Eng­lish Slang Now Free Online: Cov­ers 500 Years of the “Vul­gar Tongue”

“Lynchi­an,” “Kubrick­ian,” “Taran­ti­noesque” and 100+ Film Words Have Been Added to the Oxford Eng­lish Dic­tio­nary

Dic­tio­nary of the Old­est Writ­ten Language–It Took 90 Years to Com­plete, and It’s Now 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 Jan­u­ary 14 as host of The­ater of the Apes book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

An Animated History of Versailles: Six Minutes of Animation Show the Construction of the Grand Palace Over 400 Years

Few tourists mak­ing their first trip to France go home with­out hav­ing seen Ver­sailles. But why do so many want to see Ver­sailles in the first place? Yes, its his­to­ry goes all the way back to the 1620s, with its com­par­a­tive­ly mod­est begin­nings as a hunt­ing lodge built for King Louis XIII, but much in Europe goes back quite a bit fur­ther. It did house the French roy­al fam­i­ly for gen­er­a­tions, but absolute monar­chy has­n’t been a favored insti­tu­tion in France for quite some time. Only the most jad­ed vis­i­tors could come away unim­pressed by the palace’s sheer grand­ness, but those in need of a hit of osten­ta­tion can always get it on cer­tain shop­ping streets in Paris. The appeal of Ver­sailles, and of Ver­sailles alone, must have more do with the way it phys­i­cal­ly embod­ies cen­turies of French his­to­ry.

You can watch that his­to­ry unfold through the con­struc­tion of Ver­sailles, both exte­ri­or and inte­ri­or, in these two videos from the offi­cial Ver­sailles Youtube chan­nel. The first begins with Louis XII­I’s hunt­ing lodge, which, when the “Sun King” Louis XIV inher­it­ed its site, had been replaced by a small stone-and-brick chateau. There Louis XIV launched an ambi­tious build­ing cam­paign, and the half-cen­tu­ry-long project ulti­mate­ly pro­duced the largest chateau in all Europe.

The Sun King moved his gov­ern­ment and court there, and of course con­tin­ued mak­ing addi­tions and refine­ments all the while, extend­ing the com­plex out­ward with more and more new build­ings. Louis XIV’s suc­ces­sor Louis XV put his own archi­tec­tur­al stamp on the palace as well, sub­di­vid­ing its spaces into small­er apart­ments and adding an opera house.

But when the French Rev­o­lu­tion came in 1789, the roy­al fam­i­ly had to vacate Ver­sailles tout de suite. Then came the removal of the abso­lutism-sym­bol­iz­ing “roy­al rail­ings” out front, the tak­ing of its paint­ings that hung on its walls to the Lou­vre (the third most pop­u­lar tourist attrac­tion in France, inci­den­tal­ly, two spots ahead of Ver­sailles), and the auc­tion­ing off of its fur­ni­ture. While the anti-monar­chi­cal fer­vor of the peri­od imme­di­ate­ly fol­low­ing the rev­o­lu­tion was­n’t par­tic­u­lar­ly good to Ver­sailles, lat­er rulers imple­ment­ed restora­tions, and the cur­rent Fifth Repub­lic may well have spent more on the place than even Louis XIV did. And so we have one more rea­son six mil­lion peo­ple want to vis­it Ver­sailles each and every year: they want to see whether France is get­ting its mon­ey worth.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ver­sailles 3D, Cre­at­ed by Google, Gives You an Impres­sive Tour of Louis XIV’s Famous Palace

A 3D Ani­mat­ed His­to­ry of Paris: Take a Visu­al Jour­ney from Ancient Times to the World’s Fair of 1889

French Illus­tra­tor Revives the Byzan­tine Empire with Mag­nif­i­cent­ly Detailed Draw­ings of Its Mon­u­ments & Build­ings: Hagia Sophia, Great Palace & More

14,000 Free Images from the French Rev­o­lu­tion Now Avail­able Online

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 3D Animated History of Paris: Take a Visual Journey from Ancient Times to 1900

“And this too,” mus­es Mar­low as he floats down the Thames in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Dark­ness, “has been one of the dark places on earth.” Whole the­ses have been writ­ten on the mean­ing of this state­ment. We can sim­ply take it to mean that before Lon­don was Lon­don, it was just anoth­er obscure, hum­ble town of ordi­nary farm­ers and arti­sans. That is, before the Romans came. So too Paris.

One of the world’s most famous cities got its start as a clus­ter of hum­ble huts, walled com­pounds, and low, wood­en build­ings with thatched roofs and fenced-in pastures—the set­tle­ment of a Celtic tribe known as the Parisii, who began inhab­it­ing the region some­time in the 3rd cen­tu­ry, BCE. In the first cen­tu­ry, the Romans con­quered and set­tled what would become the Left Bank, and began to build an impres­sive, pros­per­ous city with a forum, tem­ples, bath­hous­es, and the­aters.

The Roman town was first called Lute­tia (or Luti­cia Pari­sio­rum) and the cen­tral forum, in French, the Forum de Lutèce. Chris­tian­i­ty came in the 3rd cen­tu­ry, sup­pos­ed­ly by way of Saint Denis, whom the Romans behead­ed on the hill lat­er known as Mons Mar­tyrum (“Hill of the Martyrs”)—later still, Mont­martre. Then came the Franks in the 5th cen­tu­ry, estab­lish­ing the Merovin­gian dynasty under Clo­vis in 508 and bring­ing with them Frank­ish speech, and lat­er the Fran­cien dialect of Île-de-France.

The rest—in broad out­line or fine detail—you may know, but if not, like all city’s his­to­ries, it is worth get­ting acquaint­ed. As you do, watch the video above from Das­sault Sys­temes’ Paris 3D, an “inter­ac­tive jour­ney through time” that strips away hun­dreds of years of his­to­ry to reveal vir­tu­al mod­els of the city dur­ing the peri­ods above and through the Mid­dle Ages, French Rev­o­lu­tion, and the 1889 World’s Fair, presided over by the just-built Eif­fel Tow­er.

The project “required the work of over 40 peo­ple, includ­ing numer­ous experts about Paris’s his­to­ry, for more than two years.” By 2013, it cov­ered the city’s “18,000 list­ed mon­u­ments” with a web­site, free iPad app, and aug­ment­ed real­i­ty book. Unfor­tu­nate­ly, the fea­tures of its web appli­ca­tion seem to have been dis­abled and its app seems unavail­able, at least in the U.S. Still—like the vir­tu­al 3d videos of Rome we’ve fea­tured recent­ly—the pro­mo video above offers some impres­sive, beau­ti­ful­ly-ren­dered recon­struc­tions of the city one-thou­sand, fif­teen hun­dred, and over two thou­sand years ago.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Take Ani­mat­ed Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty Tours of Ancient Rome at Its Archi­tec­tur­al Peak (Cir­ca 320 AD)

Take a 3D Vir­tu­al Tour of the Sis­tine Chapel, St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca and Oth­er Art-Adorned Vat­i­can Spaces

Prize-Win­ning Ani­ma­tion Lets You Fly Through 17th Cen­tu­ry Lon­don

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

How the Inventor of Dynamite, Alfred Nobel, Read an Obituary That Called Him “The Merchant of Death” and Made Amends by Creating the Nobel Prize

No one can ever ful­ly pre­dict the con­se­quences of their actions. Still, some warn­ing bells should be hard to ignore. Take Alfred Nobel, for instance, the founder of the Nobel Prize. For most of his life, he had a dif­fer­ent reputation—as the inven­tor of dyna­mite, one of the most destruc­tive tech­nolo­gies of the age. Though he main­tained his motives were pure, Nobel had no short­age of signs telling him his cre­ation might do at least as much harm as good. He per­se­vered and lived to regret it, it’s said.

Born in Swe­den in 1833, Nobel became obsessed with explo­sives at a young age after meet­ing the inven­tor of nitro-glyc­erin. He spent some for­ma­tive years try­ing to har­ness its pow­er, even after a botched nitro-glyc­erin exper­i­ment at a fac­to­ry killed his younger broth­er and five oth­er work­ers. Nobel patent­ed dyna­mite in 1867, a “new, trans­portable explo­sive,” notes the Syd­ney Morn­ing Her­ald video above, that “was an instant hit in the min­ing and con­struc­tion indus­tries.” Orig­i­nal­ly called “Nobel’s Blast­ing Pow­der,” the chemist and engi­neer soon choose a new name, from the ancient Greek work for “pow­er.”

It wouldn’t take long before dyna­mite became a con­ve­nient­ly dev­as­tat­ing weapon of war, espe­cial­ly in the Span­ish Amer­i­can War, which began two years after Alfred’s death. But ten years ear­li­er, in 1888, when the bot­tle was already well uncorked, Alfred received a shock when a French news­pa­per misiden­ti­fied him for his broth­er, Lud­wig, who had just died. His erro­neous pre-mortem obit­u­ary appeared with the head­line “The Mer­chant of Death is Dead!” The unspar­ing bio went on to say that Nobel “became rich by find­ing ways to kill more peo­ple faster than ever before.”

This may have not been his inten­tion, so he believed, but when he saw the image reflect­ed back at him, he imme­di­ate­ly sought to atone for his way­ward inven­tion. “Leg­end has it, Nobel was mor­ti­fied… and spent the rest of his life try­ing to estab­lish a pos­i­tive lega­cy.” He sought to con­nect peo­ple around the world, pio­neer­ing an ear­ly ver­sion of Google Earth “with bal­loons and rock­ets instead of satel­lites.” And when he died in 1896, he left half of his wealth, “over half a bil­lion dol­lars today, to estab­lish the Nobel Prizes.”

It is a fas­ci­nat­ing case, if we cred­it the mis­tak­en obit­u­ary for turn­ing Nobel’s life around. Adam Grant—whom Preet Bharara intro­duces on his pod­cast Stay Tuned as “an orga­ni­za­tion­al psy­chol­o­gist and star pro­fes­sor at the Whar­ton School”—mentions Nobel as a “pret­ty rad­i­cal exam­ple of peo­ple chang­ing in pret­ty rad­i­cal ways.” There are sev­er­al prob­lems with this inter­pre­ta­tion. Nobel may have seen the light, but he did not rad­i­cal­ly change as a per­son. He was already an ide­al­is­tic inven­tor, as a Van­der­bilt Uni­ver­si­ty biog­ra­phy has it, a sup­port­er of “the peace move­ment” and a “tru­ly inter­na­tion­al fig­ure.”

Called by Vic­tor Hugo the “wealth­i­est vagabond in Europe,” Nobel wrote nov­els, poet­ry, dra­ma, and let­ters in five lan­guages. He had a broad human­ist out­look but for some rea­son could or would not see the worst uses of his prod­uct, even as his com­pa­ny sold weapons—to Italy for exam­ple, an act for which his adopt­ed nation of France deemed him a trai­tor in 1891.

Nobel’s first Swedish patent was for “ways to pre­pare gun­pow­der” and his father, also an inven­tor, man­aged the fam­i­ly fac­to­ry before him and made arms for the Crimean War. Like many a gild­ed age indus­tri­al­ist, Nobel turned away from the suf­fer­ing he caused, endow­ing the arts and sci­ences after death to ease his con­science in life, many think, but not to tru­ly ame­lio­rate the dam­age done.

Nobel’s com­pa­nies have sur­vived him, mak­ing rock­et launch­ers and the like as well as unde­ni­ably use­ful min­ing and con­struc­tion tools. His prizes, what­ev­er his inten­tions, have also done the world much good, not least in cre­at­ing a glob­al plat­form for deserv­ing lumi­nar­ies. (Those who have reject­ed Nobels have vig­or­ous­ly argued oth­er­wise.) Nobel was a sen­si­tive and com­pli­cat­ed indi­vid­ual whose life was filled with grief and loss and who left a last­ing lega­cy as a patron of intel­lec­tu­al cul­ture. He was also a man­u­fac­tur­er of dead­ly weapons of mass destruc­tion. Both of these things were true.

But even if he did not rad­i­cal­ly change—either his char­ac­ter or his busi­ness model—he did shift his per­spec­tive enough to have a tremen­dous impact on his lega­cy, which is the les­son Grant draws from his sto­ry. “Too often,” he tells Bharara, “we’re look­ing at our lives through a micro­scope,” obliv­i­ous to the larg­er scale. “What we actu­al­ly need is a wide-angle lens where we can zoom out and ask, what is my lega­cy? What is the impact of this behav­ior on my rep­u­ta­tion?” Some­times, says Grant, “peo­ple do not like the per­son that’s star­ing them in the mir­ror, and they decide they want to change.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jean-Paul Sartre Rejects the Nobel Prize in Lit­er­a­ture in 1964: “It Was Mon­strous!”

Albert Camus Wins the Nobel Prize & Sends a Let­ter of Grat­i­tude to His Ele­men­tary School Teacher (1957)

7 Nobel Speech­es by 7 Great Writ­ers: Hem­ing­way, Faulkn­er, and More

Hear Toni Morrison’s Poet­ic Nobel Prize Accep­tance Speech on the Rad­i­cal Pow­er of Lan­guage (1993)

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

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast