Discover Isotype, the 1920s Attempt to Create a Universal Language with Stylish Icons & Graphic Design

How long has mankind dreamed of an inter­na­tion­al lan­guage? The first answer that comes to mind, of course, dates that dream to the time of the Bib­li­cal sto­ry of the Tow­er of Babel. If you don’t hap­pen to believe that human­i­ty was made to speak a vari­ety of mutu­al­ly incom­pre­hen­si­ble tongues as pun­ish­ment for dar­ing to build a tow­er tall enough to reach heav­en, maybe you’d pre­fer a date some­where around the much lat­er devel­op­ment of Esperan­to, the best-known lan­guage invent­ed specif­i­cal­ly to attain uni­ver­sal­i­ty, in the late 19th cen­tu­ry. But look ahead a few decades past that and you find an intrigu­ing exam­ple of a lan­guage cre­at­ed to unite the world with­out using words at all: Inter­na­tion­al Sys­tem Of Typo­graph­ic Pic­ture Edu­ca­tion, or Iso­type.

“Near­ly a cen­tu­ry before info­graph­ics and data visu­al­iza­tion became the cul­tur­al ubiq­ui­ty they are today,” writes Brain Pick­ings’ Maria Popo­va, “the pio­neer­ing Aus­tri­an soci­ol­o­gist, philoso­pher of sci­ence, social reformer, and cura­tor Otto Neu­rath (Decem­ber 10, 1882–December 22, 1945), togeth­er with his not-yet-wife Marie, invent­ed ISOTYPE — the vision­ary pic­togram lan­guage that fur­nished the vocab­u­lary of mod­ern info­graph­ics.”

First known as the Vien­na Method of Pic­to­r­i­al Sta­tis­tics, Iso­type­’s ini­tial devel­op­ment began in 1926 at Vien­na’s Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmu­se­um (or Social and Eco­nom­ic Muse­um), of which Neu­rath was the found­ing direc­tor. There he began to assem­ble some­thing like a design stu­dio team, with the mis­sion of cre­at­ing a set of pic­to­r­i­al sym­bols that could ren­der dense social, sci­en­tif­ic tech­no­log­i­cal, bio­log­i­cal, and his­tor­i­cal infor­ma­tion leg­i­ble at a glance.

Neu­rath’s most impor­tant ear­ly col­lab­o­ra­tor on Iso­type was sure­ly the wood­cut artist Gerd Arntz, at whose site you can see the more than 4000 pic­tograms he cre­at­ed to sym­bol­ize “key data from indus­try, demo­graph­ics, pol­i­tics and econ­o­my.” Arntz designed them all in accor­dance with Neu­rat’s belief that even then the long “vir­tu­al­ly illit­er­ate” pro­le­tari­at “need­ed knowl­edge of the world around them. This knowl­edge should not be shrined in opaque sci­en­tif­ic lan­guage, but direct­ly illus­trat­ed in straight­for­ward images and a clear struc­ture, also for peo­ple who could not, or hard­ly, read. Anoth­er out­spo­ken goal of this method of visu­al sta­tis­tics was to over­come bar­ri­ers of lan­guage and cul­ture, and to be uni­ver­sal­ly under­stood.”

By the mid-1930s, writes The Atlantic’s Steven Heller in an arti­cle on the book Iso­type: Design and Con­texts 1925–1971, “with the Nazi march into Aus­tria, Neu­rath fled Vien­na for Hol­land. He met his future wife Marie Rei­de­meis­ter there and after the Ger­man bomb­ing of Rot­ter­dam the pair escaped to Eng­land, where they were interned on the Isle of Man. Fol­low­ing their release they estab­lished the Iso­type Insti­tute in Oxford. From this base they con­tin­ued to devel­op their unique strat­e­gy, which influ­enced design­ers world­wide.” Today, even those who have nev­er laid eyes on Iso­type itself have exten­sive­ly “read” the visu­al lan­guages it has influ­enced: Giz­mod­o’s Alis­sa Walk­er points to the stan­dard­ized icons cre­at­ed in the 70s by the U.S. Depart­ment of Trans­porta­tion and the Amer­i­can Insti­tute of Graph­ic Arts as well as today’s emo­ji — prob­a­bly not exact­ly what Neu­rath had in mind as the lan­guage of Utopia back when he was co-found­ing the Vien­na Cir­cle, but nev­er­the­less a dis­tant cousin of Iso­type in “its own adorable way.”

via Brain Pick­ings

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Art of Data Visu­al­iza­tion: How to Tell Com­plex Sto­ries Through Smart Design

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

Say What You Real­ly Mean with Down­load­able Cindy Sher­man Emoti­cons

The Hobo Code: An Intro­duc­tion to the Hiero­glyph­ic Lan­guage of Ear­ly 1900s Train-Hop­pers

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 a Playthrough of the Oldest Board Game in the World, the Sumerian Royal Game of Ur, Circa 2500 BC

They may not sur­prise the aver­age mar­ket ana­lyst, but the gam­ing industry’s fig­ures tell a pret­ty com­pelling sto­ry. New­zoo esti­mates that “2.3 bil­lion gamers across the globe will spend $137. 9 bil­lion on games in 2018.” Ven­ture­Beat reports that mobile games account for over 50 per­cent of the total. Cur­rent­ly, “about 91 per­cent of the glob­al mar­ket is dig­i­tal, mean­ing that $125.3 bil­lion worth of games flows through dig­i­tal­ly con­nect­ed chan­nels as opposed to phys­i­cal retail.”

That’s a lot of vir­tu­al dough float­ing around in vir­tu­al worlds. But this vast and rapid growth in dig­i­tal gam­ing does not mean phys­i­cal games are going away any­time soon—and that includes cards, board games, and oth­er table­top games, a mar­ket that has “surged as play­ers have grown jad­ed with the dig­i­tal screens they toil over dur­ing the work day,” wrote Joon Ian Wong in 2016.

Ven­ture cap­i­tal is flow­ing into board game devel­op­ment. Table­top bars and cafes are pop­ping up all over the world, encour­ag­ing peo­ple to min­gle over Scrab­ble and Cards Against Human­i­ty. It seems the time is just right to revive the old­est playable board game in the world. If some­one hasn’t already launched a Kick­starter to bankroll a new Roy­al Game of Ur, I sus­pect we’ll see one any day now. At least four-and-a-half-thou­sand years old, accord­ing to British Muse­um Cura­tor Irv­ing Finkel, the Roy­al Game of Ur was prob­a­bly invent­ed by the Sume­ri­ans. And it seems like it might still be a blast, and a con­sid­er­able chal­lenge, to play.

“You might think it’s so old that it’s irre­triev­able to us, that we’ve got no idea what it was like play­ing, what the rules were like,” Finkel says in the video at the top, “but all sorts of evi­dence has come to light so that we know how this game was played.” He promis­es, in no uncer­tain terms, to wipe the floor with YouTu­ber Tom Scott in a Roy­al Game of Ur show­down, and Scott, who has nev­er played the game before, seems at a decid­ed dis­ad­van­tage. But watch their con­test to see how the game is played and whether Finkel makes good on his threat. Along the way, he lib­er­al­ly shares his knowl­edge.

For a short­er course on the Roy­al Game of Ur, see Finkel’s video above. It takes him a cou­ple min­utes to get around to intro­duc­ing his sub­ject, the dis­cov­ery and deci­pher­ing of the “world’s old­est rule book.” A con­sum­mate ancient his­to­ry detec­tive, Finkel describes how he decod­ed an ancient tablet that explained a game, but which game, no one knew. So, the ded­i­cat­ed cura­tor tried the rules on every mys­te­ri­ous ancient game he could find, till he land­ed on the “game of twen­ty squares” from Mesopotamia. “It fit­ted per­fect­ly,” he says with rel­ish. See the orig­i­nal board, pieces, and dice from about 2500 BC, and learn how Finkel had been search­ing for its rules of play since he was 9 years old.

For more of Finkel’s pas­sion­ate pub­lic schol­ar­ship, see him demon­strate how to write in cuneiform and read about how his work on cuneiform tablets led to him dis­cov­er­ing the old­est ref­er­ence to the Noah’s Ark myth.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Hear the “Seik­i­los Epi­taph,” the Old­est Com­plete Song in the World: An Inspir­ing Tune from 100 BC

The British Muse­um Is Now Open To Every­one: Take a Vir­tu­al Tour and See 4,737 Arti­facts, Includ­ing the Roset­ta Stone

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

Meet the Hurdy Gurdy, the Hand-Cranked Medieval Instrument with 80 Moving Parts

Donovan’s “Hur­dy Gur­dy Man” may be the creepi­est song ever writ­ten about an obscure medieval instru­ment (made all the more so by its use in David Fincher’s Zodi­ac), but the Hur­dy Gur­dy did not give his record­ing its omi­nous sound. Those dron­ing notes come from an Indi­an tan­pu­ra. Yet they evoke the title instru­ment, an inge­nious musi­cal inven­tion “set up pri­mar­i­ly for the pur­pose of mak­ing drones,” Case West­ern Reserve’s Col­lege of Art and Sci­ences explains. “In the Mid­dle Ages, it was known in Latin as the organ­istrum and the sym­pho­nia, and in French as the vielle à roue (the vielle with the wheel).”

With a sound pro­duced by a “rosined wood­en wheel, turned by a crank” that set “a num­ber of strings in con­tin­u­ous dron­ing vibra­tion,” the hur­dy gur­dy can, it’s true, give off a bit of a folk hor­ror vibe. From its very ear­ly, maybe 10th or 11th cen­tu­ry ori­gins in litur­gi­cal music, hur­dy gur­dy expert Jim Kendros tells us in the video above, the instru­ment became asso­ci­at­ed with Euro­pean folk music, shrink­ing from a beast played by two peo­ple to more portable dimen­sions, about the size of a large gui­tar and resem­bling a hand-cranked vio­lin with keys for play­ing melodies on cer­tain strings.

Though it grew small­er and more maneu­ver­able, how­ev­er, the instru­ment grew no less com­pli­cat­ed. Kendros calls it “the equiv­a­lent of a medieval space­ship,” with its more than 80 mov­ing parts.

The hur­dy gur­dy, or “wheel fid­dle,” played in the TED Talk above by Car­o­line Phillips looks less like a fid­dle, or a space­ship, and more like a medieval keytar—just one of the many shapes the instru­ment could take. All of them, how­ev­er, had one impor­tant fea­ture in com­mon: the hur­dy gur­dy is “the only musi­cal instru­ment that uses a crank to turn a wheel to rub strings like the bow of a vio­lin to pro­duce music.” His­tor­i­cal­ly, it was used in medieval dance music “because of the unique­ness of the melody com­bined with the acoustic boom box” of its large body. Try not to shake your body, or to shiv­er, when Phillips plays a haunt­ing, dron­ing Basque folk song.

The Hur­dy Gur­dy spread all over Europe, from Britain to France, Spain, Italy, Ger­many, Hun­gary, and Swe­den, where stringed-instru­ment enthu­si­asts The String­dom caught up with vir­tu­oso Hur­dy Gur­dy play­er Johannes Geworkian Hell­man. He tells us how the hur­dy gur­dy and its dron­ing son­ic cousin, the bag­pipes, set off “an ear­ly folk revival” as com­posers took inspi­ra­tion from peas­ant music. The inter­est from medieval upper class­es meant bet­ter luthiers and high­er-qual­i­ty hur­dy gur­dies. Now mod­ern inter­est in the Hur­dy Gur­dy is grow­ing. While it may take two to three years to hand­craft one, “a lot of new instru­ments are get­ting made,” says Hell­man.

Should you doubt that the 1000-year old hur­dy gur­dy can still sound hip, lis­ten to Hell­man play an elec­tri­fied ver­sion in his hur­dy gurdy/accordion duo, Sym­bio, or hur­dy gurdy/dulcimer two-piece, Mai­ja & Johannes. He coax­es from the instru­ment such a range of rhythms and tim­bres that it’s easy to see why it was so immense­ly pop­u­lar for so long. Yet for all its musi­cal appeal, it is a com­plex machine, dif­fi­cult to tune and sub­ject to any num­ber of mechan­i­cal prob­lems. Not for the casu­al ama­teur, the instru­ment still requires a ded­i­cat­ed Hur­dy Gur­dy man or woman to make it sing—a much more com­mon sight than in Dono­van’s day but an exceed­ing­ly rare one com­pared to the many cen­turies of the hur­dy gur­dy’s hey­day. See more hur­dy gur­dies at the Vin­tage News.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How an 18th-Cen­tu­ry Monk Invent­ed the First Elec­tron­ic Instru­ment

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

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

New Order’s “Blue Mon­day” Played with Obso­lete 1930s Instru­ments

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

Watch the First-Ever Kiss on Film Between Two Black Actors, Just Honored by the Library of Congress (1898)

In 1896, Thomas Edi­son pro­duced The Kiss. One of the first films ever com­mer­cial­ly screened, it adapts the then-pop­u­lar musi­cal The Wid­ow Jones — or at least it adapts about twen­ty sec­onds of it, a kiss that hap­pens in the very last scene. Two years lat­er came the equal­ly short but dif­fer­ent­ly ground­break­ing Some­thing Good – Negro Kiss, a ver­sion of The Kiss star­ring black actors instead of white ones. Only now, thanks in part to the efforts of Uni­ver­si­ty of South­ern Cal­i­for­nia archivist Dino Everett and Uni­ver­si­ty of Chica­go Cin­e­ma and Media Stud­ies pro­fes­sor Allyson Nadia Field, has it received prop­er recog­ni­tion as the first such kiss on film.

“To uncov­er the ori­gins of Everett’s footage, Field relied on inven­to­ry and dis­tri­b­u­tion cat­a­logs, trac­ing the film to Chica­go,” writes UChica­go News’ Jack Wang. “This was where William Selig —a  vaude­ville per­former turned film pro­duc­er — had shot it on his knock­off of a Lumière Ciné­matographe. That cam­era pro­duced the tell­tale per­fo­ra­tion marks which had tipped Everett off to the print’s age.”

With sup­port from the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art, writes Hyper­al­ler­gic’s Jas­mine Weber, “Field not only iden­ti­fied the film­mak­er, but the per­form­ers: Saint Sut­tle and Ger­tie Brown. Sut­tle is dressed in a dap­per suit and bowtie, while Brown dons an ornate dress — cos­tumes that Field says were typ­i­cal of min­strel per­form­ers.”

“What makes this film so remark­able is that if you look at films from this peri­od that fea­ture African-Amer­i­cans, first of all, most of them are white actors in black­face,” says Field in the NPR seg­ment above. “They are car­i­ca­tures. They’re cer­tain­ly racist. They fea­ture racist tropes like water­mel­on-eat­ing con­tests and things like that. The Amer­i­can screen was incred­i­bly hos­tile to African-Amer­i­cans for much of its his­to­ry,” but Some­thing Good — Negro Kiss “refutes those kind of car­i­ca­tures and asserts an image of human­i­ty and of love.”

That image has received quite a response on the inter­net as the clip has cir­cu­lat­ed in the week since its induc­tion into the Library of Con­gress’ Nation­al Film Reg­istry along­side the likes of The Shin­ingMon­terey PopBroke­back Moun­tainThe Lady from Shang­hai, and Juras­sic Park. One lawyer-slash-crit­ic even brought this piece of ear­ly cin­e­ma togeth­er with a piece of cur­rent cin­e­ma, mash­ing it up with the score of Bar­ry Jenk­ins’ just-released James Bald­win adap­ta­tion If Beale Street Could Talk. Selig, Sut­tle, and Brown must have known full well that they were mak­ing some­thing new. But did they know they were also mak­ing his­to­ry?

via Quartz

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the Pio­neer­ing Films of Oscar Micheaux, America’s First Great African-Amer­i­can Film­mak­er

African-Amer­i­can His­to­ry: Mod­ern Free­dom Strug­gle (A Free Course from Stan­ford)

Mas­sive New Data­base Will Final­ly Allow Us to Iden­ti­fy Enslaved Peo­ples and Their Descen­dants in the Amer­i­c­as

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

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.

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

Pio­neer­ing film­mak­ers Auguste and Louis Lumière, the inven­tors of the pro­ject­ed motion pic­ture, held their first pri­vate screen­ing in Paris in March of 1895. The streets of the French cap­i­tal would go on to pro­vide the broth­ers with plen­ty of life in motion for their new tech­nol­o­gy to cap­ture in the years there­after, and you can watch eight such real scenes com­piled in the video above. With its star­tling clar­i­ty — and its more recent­ly cor­rect­ed motion and added sound — this selec­tion of pieces of Lumière footage offers a rich six-minute cin­e­mat­ic time-trav­el expe­ri­ence to the City of Light between the years of 1896 and 1900.

Guy Jones, the uploader of the video on Youtube, pro­vides the fol­low­ing guide to the loca­tions:

Notre-Dame Cathe­dral (1896)

Alma Bridge (1900)

Avenue des Champs-Élysées (1899)

Place de la Con­corde (1897)

Pass­ing of a fire brigade (1897)

Tui­leries Gar­den (1896)

Mov­ing walk­way at the Paris Expo­si­tion (1900)

The Eif­fel Tow­er from the Rives de la Seine à Paris (1897)

These places have con­tin­ued to pro­vide gen­er­a­tion after gen­er­a­tion of film­mak­ers with loca­tions for their urban cin­e­mat­ic visions. (The Eif­fel Tow­er now pro­vides an imme­di­ate visu­al short­hand for the city, though it cer­tain­ly would­n’t have in this Lumière footage, when it was less than ten years old.) That goes for French film­mak­ers as well as those of many oth­er nation­al­i­ties: even the Coen Broth­ers used Tui­leries Gar­den for their short film Tui­leries, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture.

Or at least they used the sub­way sta­tion under­neath Tui­leries Gar­den, which would­n’t open until 1900, the same year as the Paris Métro itself — and the year of the Paris Expo­si­tion, also known as the Expo­si­tion Uni­verselle, which gave Parisians the chance to ride the mov­ing side­walk seen in the sec­ond-to-last Lumière seg­ment.

Any­one famil­iar with the Paris of the 21st cen­tu­ry will be quick to observe the dif­fer­ences between the city now and the city 120 years ago. But a Parisian of the 1890s might well have said they were the ones who lived in a city made unrec­og­niz­able to ear­li­er gen­er­a­tions, giv­en Georges-Eugène Hauss­man­n’s com­plete revi­sion of the cen­tral city com­mis­sioned by Napoléon III and car­ried out between 1853 and 1870. For good or for ill, it’s just as much Hauss­man­n’s Paris today as it was Hauss­man­n’s Paris in the 1890s, and crit­i­cisms that the city has remained frozen in time aren’t with­out mer­it. But to see what has most dra­mat­i­cal­ly changed about mod­ern Paris — that is, what has changed about how peo­ple see and inter­act with mod­ern Paris — we must turn to cin­e­ma. Might I sug­gest the work of Éric Rohmer?

via Boing Boing

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Beau­ti­ful, Col­or Pho­tographs of Paris Tak­en 100 Years Ago—at the Begin­ning of World War I & the End of La Belle Époque

Immac­u­late­ly Restored Film Lets You Revis­it Life in New York City in 1911

The Old­est Known Footage of Lon­don (1890–1920) Fea­tures the City’s Great Land­marks

Time Trav­el Back to Tokyo After World War II, and See the City in Remark­ably High-Qual­i­ty 1940s Video

Berlin Street Scenes Beau­ti­ful­ly Caught on Film (1900–1914)

Dra­mat­ic Footage of San Fran­cis­co Right Before & After the Mas­sive­ly Dev­as­tat­ing Earth­quake of 1906

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 Evolution of The Great Wave off Kanagawa: See Four Versions That Hokusai Painted Over Nearly 40 Years

Has any Japan­ese wood­block print — or for that mat­ter, any piece of Japan­ese art — endured as well across place and time as The Great Wave off Kana­gawa? Even those of us who have nev­er known its name, let alone those of us unsure of who made it and when, can bring it to mind it with some clar­i­ty, as sure a sign as any (along with the numer­ous par­o­dies) that it taps into some­thing deep with­in all of us. But though the artist behind it, 18th- and 19th-cen­tu­ry ukiyo‑e painter Kat­sushi­ka Hoku­sai, was undoubt­ed­ly a mas­ter of his tra­di­tion, even he did­n’t con­jure up The Great Wave off Kana­gawa in the form we know it on the first try.

In fact, he’d been pro­duc­ing dif­fer­ent ver­sions of it for near­ly forty years. On Twit­ter Tarin tkasasa­gi recent­ly post­ed four ver­sions of the Great Wave that Hoku­sai paint­ed over that peri­od. Here you see them arranged from top to bot­tom: the first from 1792, when he was 33; the sec­ond from 1803, when he was 44; the third from 1805, when he was 46; and the famous fourth from 1831, when he was 72.

Each time, Hoku­sai de-empha­sizes the human pres­ence and empha­sizes the nat­ur­al ele­ments, bring­ing out dra­ma from the water itself rather than from the peo­ple who regard or nav­i­gate it. In each ver­sion, too, the col­ors grow bold­er and the lines stronger.

The skill lev­el of a work­ing artist — espe­cial­ly an artist work­ing as hard as Hoku­sai — almost inevitably increas­es over time, and that must have some­thing to do with these changes, though it also looks like the process of an artis­tic per­son­al­i­ty set­tling into its sub­ject mat­ter. “From the time I was six, I was in the habit of sketch­ing things I saw around me,” says Hoku­sai him­self in a wide­ly cir­cu­lat­ed quo­ta­tion. “Around the age of 50, I began to work in earnest, pro­duc­ing numer­ous designs. It was not until my 70th year, how­ev­er, that I pro­duced any­thing of sig­nif­i­cance.”

In the artist’s telling, only at the age of 73, after the final Great Wave, did he begin to grasp “the under­ly­ing struc­ture of birds and ani­mals, insects and fish, and the way trees and plants grow. Thus if I keep up my efforts, I will have even a bet­ter under­stand­ing when I was 80 and by 90 will have pen­e­trat­ed to the heart of things. At 100, I may reach a lev­el of divine under­stand­ing, and if I live decades beyond that, every­thing I paint — dot and line — will be alive.” The fact that he did­n’t make it to 100 will for­ev­er keep enthu­si­asts won­der­ing what mag­nif­i­cence an even old­er Hoku­sai might have achieved, but even so, the body of work he man­aged to pro­duce in his 88 years con­tains works that, like the ulti­mate form of The Great Wave off Kana­gawa, out­lived him and will out­live all of us.

via Ted Gioia

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Get Free Draw­ing Lessons from Kat­sushi­ka Hoku­sai, Who Famous­ly Paint­ed The Great Wave off Kana­gawa: Read His How-To Book, Quick Lessons in Sim­pli­fied Draw­ings

Enter a Dig­i­tal Archive of 213,000+ Beau­ti­ful Japan­ese Wood­block Prints

Down­load 2,500 Beau­ti­ful Wood­block Prints and Draw­ings by Japan­ese Mas­ters (1600–1915)

Down­load Clas­sic Japan­ese Wave and Rip­ple Designs: A Go-to Guide for Japan­ese Artists from 1903

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

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.

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

Maybe you, too, were a Latin geek who loved sword and san­dal flicks from the gold­en age of the Hol­ly­wood epic? Quo Vadis, The Fall of the Roman Empire, The Robe, Demetrius and the Glad­i­a­tors, and, of course, Spar­ta­cus…. Nev­er mind all the heavy reli­gious pre­text, con­text, sub­text, or ham­mer over the head that suf­fused these films, or any pre­tense toward his­tor­i­cal accu­ra­cy. What thrilled me was see­ing ancient Rome come alive, bustling with togas and tunics, cen­tu­ri­ons and char­i­ots. The cen­ter of the ancient world for hun­dreds of years, the city, nat­u­ral­ly, retains only traces of what it once was—enormous mon­u­ments that might as well be tombs.

The incred­i­bly detailed 3D ani­ma­tions here don’t quite have the same rous­ing effect, grant­ed, as the “I am Spar­ta­cus!” scene. They don’t star Charl­ton Hes­ton, Sophia Loren, or Kirk Dou­glas. They appeal to dif­fer­ent sen­si­bil­i­ties, it’s true. But if you love the idea of vis­it­ing Rome dur­ing one of its peak peri­ods, you might find them as sat­is­fy­ing, in their way, as Peter Ustinov’s Nero speech­es.

Dat­ing not from the time of Mark Antony or even Jesus, the painstak­ing­ly-ren­dered tours of ancient Rome depict the city as it would have looked—sans humans and their activity—during its “archi­tec­tur­al peak,” as Realm of His­to­ry notes, under Con­stan­tine, “cir­ca 320 AD.”

The VR trail­er at the top from His­to­ry in 3D, devel­oped by Dani­la Logi­nov and Lasha Tskhon­dia, depicts, in Loginov’s words, “the Forums area, and also Pala­tine and Capi­toli­um hills.” The two addi­tion­al trail­ers for the project show the “baths of Tra­jan and Titus, the stat­ue of Colos­sus Solis, arch­es of Titus and Con­stan­tine, Ludus Mag­nus, the tem­ple of Divine Claudius. Our team spent some time and recre­at­ed this area along with all minor build­ings as a com­plex and added it to the mod­el which has been already done.” This means, he says, “we have now almost the entire cen­ter of ancient impe­r­i­al Rome already recre­at­ed!”

We glide gen­tly over the city with a low-flying-bird’s eye view, tak­ing in its real­is­tic sky­line, tree-lined streets, and gur­gling foun­tains. The lack of any human pres­ence makes the expe­ri­ence a lit­tle chilly, but if you’re moved by clas­si­cal archi­tec­ture, it also presents a refresh­ing lack of distraction—an impos­si­ble request in a vis­it to mod­ern Rome. Anoth­er project, Rome Reborn, which we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here, takes a dif­fer­ent approach to the same impe­r­i­al city of 320 AD. The trail­ers for their VR app don’t pro­vide the seam­less flight expe­ri­ence, but they do con­tain equal­ly epic music. (They also have a few peo­ple in them, block­i­ly-ren­dered gawk­ing tourists rather than ancient Romans.)

Instead, these clips give us fas­ci­nat­ing glimpses of the inte­ri­ors of such splen­did struc­tures as the Basil­i­ca of Maxentius—tiled floors, domed ceil­ings, columned walls—from a num­ber of dif­fer­ent per­spec­tives. We also get to fly above the city, drone-style, or hot air bal­loon-style, as it were. In the clip below, we cruise over Rome in that vehi­cle, with ****************@***il.com”>Bernard Frisch­er, pro­fes­sor emer­i­tus at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Vir­ginia, serv­ing as the app’s “vir­tu­al archae­ol­o­gist” in an audio tour.

“The ambi­tious under­tak­ing,” of the Rome Reborn app, writes Meilan Sol­ly at Smith­son­ian, “painstak­ing­ly built by a team of 50 aca­d­e­mics and com­put­er experts over a 22-year peri­od, recre­ates 7,000 build­ings and mon­u­ments scat­tered across a 5.5 square mile stretch of the famed Ital­ian city.” The three mod­ules of the Rome Reborn app demoed here are all avail­able at their web­site. Geeks—and his­to­ri­ans of ancient Roman archi­tec­ture and city planning—rejoice.

via Smith­son­ian

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Huge Scale Mod­el Show­ing Ancient Rome at Its Archi­tec­tur­al Peak (Built Between 1933 and 1937)

An Inter­ac­tive Map Shows Just How Many Roads Actu­al­ly Lead to Rome

The Ups & Downs of Ancient Rome’s Economy–All 1,900 Years of It–Get Doc­u­ment­ed by Pol­lu­tion Traces Found in Greenland’s Ice

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

In 1964, Isaac Asimov Predicts What the World Will Look Like Today: Self-Driving Cars, Video Calls, Fake Meats & More

Rochester Insti­tute of Tech­nol­o­gy, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Isaac Asi­mov’s read­ers have long found some­thing prophet­ic in his work, but where did Asi­mov him­self look when he want­ed to catch a glimpse of the future? In 1964 he found one at the New York World’s Fair, the vast exhi­bi­tion ded­i­cat­ed to “Man’s Achieve­ment on a Shrink­ing Globe in an Expand­ing Uni­verse” that his­to­ry now remem­bers as the most elab­o­rate expres­sion of the indus­tri­al and tech­no­log­i­cal opti­mism of Space Age Amer­i­ca. Despite the fan­ci­ful nature of some of the prod­ucts on dis­play, vis­i­tors first saw things there — com­put­ers, for instance — that would become essen­tial in a mat­ter of decades.

“What is to come, through the fair’s eyes at least, is won­der­ful,” Asi­mov writes in a piece on his expe­ri­ence at the fair for the New York TimesBut it all makes him won­der: “What will life be like, say, in 2014 A.D., 50 years from now? What will the World’s Fair of 2014 be like?” His spec­u­la­tions begin with the notion that “men will con­tin­ue to with­draw from nature in order to cre­ate an envi­ron­ment that will suit them bet­ter,” which they cer­tain­ly have, though not so much through the use of “elec­tro­lu­mi­nes­cent pan­els” that will make “ceil­ings and walls will glow soft­ly, and in a vari­ety of col­ors that will change at the touch of a push but­ton.” Still, all the oth­er screens near-con­stant­ly in use seem to pro­vide all the glow we need for the moment.

“Gad­getry will con­tin­ue to relieve mankind of tedious jobs,” Asi­mov pre­dicts, and so it has, though our kitchens have yet to evolve to the point of prepar­ing “ ‘automeals,’ heat­ing water and con­vert­ing it to cof­fee; toast­ing bread; fry­ing, poach­ing or scram­bling eggs, grilling bacon, and so on.” He hits clos­er to the mark when declar­ing that “robots will nei­ther be com­mon nor very good in 2014, but they will be in exis­tence.” He notes that IBM’s exhib­it at the World’s Fair had noth­ing about robots to show, but plen­ty about com­put­ers, “which are shown in all their amaz­ing com­plex­i­ty, notably in the task of trans­lat­ing Russ­ian into Eng­lish. If machines are that smart today, what may not be in the works 50 years hence? It will be such com­put­ers, much minia­tur­ized, that will serve as the ‘brains’ of robots.”

“The appli­ances of 2014 will have no elec­tric cords,” Asi­mov writes, and in the case of our all-impor­tant mobile phones, that has turned out to be at least half-true. But we still lack the “long-lived bat­ter­ies run­ning on radioiso­topes” pro­duced by “fis­sion-pow­er plants which, by 2014, will be sup­ply­ing well over half the pow­er needs of human­i­ty.” The real decade of the 2010s turned out to be more attached to the old ways, not least by cords and cables, than Asi­mov imag­ined. Even the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca has­n’t quite mas­tered the art of design­ing high­ways so that “long bus­es move on spe­cial cen­tral lanes” along them, let alone forms of ground trav­el that “take to the air a foot or two off the ground.”

But one advance in trans­porta­tion Asi­mov describes will sound famil­iar to those of us liv­ing in the 2010s: “Much effort will be put into the design­ing of vehi­cles with ‘Robot-brains,’ vehi­cles that can be set for par­tic­u­lar des­ti­na­tions and that will then pro­ceed there with­out inter­fer­ence by the slow reflex­es of a human dri­ver.” Indeed, we hear about few report­ed­ly immi­nent tech­nolo­gies these days as much as we hear about self-dri­ving cars and their poten­tial to get us where we’re going while we do oth­er things, such as engage in com­mu­ni­ca­tions that “will become sight-sound and you will see as well as hear the per­son you tele­phone,” on a screen used “not only to see the peo­ple you call but also for study­ing doc­u­ments and pho­tographs and read­ing pas­sages from books.”

Con­ver­sa­tions with the moon colonies, Asi­mov need­less­ly warns us, “will be a tri­fle uncom­fort­able” because of the 2.5‑second delay. But imme­di­ate­ly there­after comes the much more real­is­tic pre­dic­tion that “as for tele­vi­sion, wall screens will have replaced the ordi­nary set.” Still, “all is not rosy” in the world of 2014, whose pop­u­la­tion will have swelled to 6,500,000,000 — or 7,298,453,033, as it hap­pened. This has many impli­ca­tions for devel­op­ment, hous­ing, and even agri­cul­ture, though the “mock-turkey” and “pseu­dosteak” eat­en today has more to do with lifestyle than neces­si­ty. (“It won’t be bad at all,” Asi­mov adds, “if you can dig up those pre­mi­um prices.”)

Final­ly, and per­haps most impor­tant­ly, “the world of A.D. 2014 will have few rou­tine jobs that can­not be done bet­ter by some machine than by any human being. Mankind will there­fore have become large­ly a race of machine ten­ders.” Asi­mov fore­sees the need for a change in edu­ca­tion to accom­mo­date that, one hint­ed at even in Gen­er­al Elec­tric’s exhib­it in 1964, which “con­sists of a school of the future in which such present real­i­ties as closed-cir­cuit TV and pro­grammed tapes aid the teach­ing process.” His envi­sioned high-school cur­ricu­lum would have stu­dents mas­ter “the fun­da­men­tals of com­put­er tech­nol­o­gy” and get them “trained to per­fec­tion in the use of the com­put­er lan­guage.”

But even with all these devel­op­ments, “mankind will suf­fer bad­ly from the dis­ease of bore­dom, a dis­ease spread­ing more wide­ly each year and grow­ing in inten­si­ty.” The “seri­ous men­tal, emo­tion­al and soci­o­log­i­cal con­se­quences” of that will make psy­chi­a­try an impor­tant med­ical spe­cial­ty, and “the lucky few who can be involved in cre­ative work of any sort will be the true elite of mankind, for they alone will do more than serve a machine.” Though Asi­mov may have been sur­prised by what we’ve come up with in the quar­ter-cen­tu­ry since his death, as well as what we haven’t come up with, he would sure­ly have under­stood the sorts of anx­i­eties that now beset us in the future-turned-present in which we live. But even giv­en all the ways in which his pre­dic­tions in 1964 have proven more or less cor­rect, he did miss one big thing: there was no World’s Fair in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Isaac Asi­mov Laments the “Cult of Igno­rance” in the Unit­ed States: A Short, Scathing Essay from 1980

Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dicts in 2001 What the World Will Look By Decem­ber 31, 2100

Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dicts the Future in 1964 … And Kind of Nails It

Wal­ter Cronkite Imag­ines the Home of the 21st Cen­tu­ry … Back in 1967

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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