Why Inventing Color TV Was So Difficult

Many who read this will remem­ber watch­ing tele­vi­sion on a black-and-white set at some point in their lives. Few­er will remem­ber doing so because only black-and-white sets exist­ed. Of course, your own expe­ri­ence will depend upon your coun­try of ori­gin. The Unit­ed States began the tran­si­tion to col­or tele­vi­sion in 1953, and more than half of its pop­u­la­tion owned col­or sets less than twen­ty years there­after. France’s sta­tions start­ed to change over in 1967, and the last one did so in 1983. South Korea, where I live, start­ed its own reg­u­lar col­or broad­casts in 1980, though at that point, those from the Amer­i­can Forces Net­work, Japan, and even North Korea could already be tuned in for years.

Today we all take col­or TV for grant­ed, but as the Pri­mal Space video above explains, its inven­tion was no sim­ple mat­ter. Still, it occurred much ear­li­er than most of us would imag­ine. In 1925, Scot­tish inven­tor John Logie Baird came up with the first tele­vi­sion, which involved pass­ing light through holes in a spin­ning disc onto a pho­to­elec­tric cell for trans­mis­sion through cables or radio waves. This sys­tem could only reg­is­ter the bright­ness of the light, pro­duc­ing a black-and-white image. But the mech­a­nism itself sug­gest­ed a means of intro­duc­ing col­or: enlarge the disc, add sep­a­rate sets of holes for red, green, and blue, and repro­duce a frame of each in quick, cycli­cal suc­ces­sion at the oth­er end, tak­ing advan­tage of the human eye­’s ten­den­cy to col­lapse them into a sin­gle image.

Baird first demon­strat­ed his col­or tele­vi­sion sys­tem in 1928. Though impres­sive, it also looked unlike­ly to per­form at a scale that could pro­duce a sharp, smooth mov­ing pic­ture. Oth­er engi­neers saw more tele­vi­su­al promise in the tech­nol­o­gy of the cath­ode ray tube, or CRT, which Japan­ese inven­tor Ken­jiro Takayana­gi had already har­nessed for his own black-and-white mechan­i­cal tele­vi­sion in the year before. The key com­po­nent was the icono­scope invent­ed by Vladimir Zworykin in 1933. “Essen­tial­ly the world’s first video cam­era,” it employed an inter­nal elec­tron gun to “scan” a cap­tured image into a trans­mis­si­ble elec­tri­cal sig­nal. Still, the ques­tion remained: how to do it in col­or?

Enter the Radio Cor­po­ra­tion of Amer­i­ca, whose abbre­vi­at­ed name more than a few of us will remem­ber from our child­hood TV sets. Hav­ing devel­oped a video cam­era “that took the incom­ing light and fil­tered it through spe­cial prisms to sep­a­rate the red, green, and blue,” con­vert­ing each into its own sig­nal, RCA then faced the prob­lem of deliv­er­ing the result to view­ers at home. None of the more than five mil­lion black-and-white sets already extant in the U.S. could receive those three sig­nals at all. The solu­tion involved using one elec­tron gun per col­or, each of whose sig­nals would be encod­ed so as to be hid­den in the exist­ing black-and-white tele­vi­sion sig­nal and then decod­ed by col­or sets. Con­sumers may not have tak­en up the tech­nol­o­gy all at once, but those who did in time for The Wiz­ard of Oz’s first broad­cast in 1956 sure­ly under­stood that col­or TV had a future.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch a Tele­vi­sion Sta­tion Switch From Black & White to Col­or for First Time (1967)

How Tech­ni­col­or Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Cin­e­ma with Sur­re­al, Elec­tric Col­ors & Changed How We See Our World

Watch David Bowie Per­form “Star­man” on Top of the Pops: Vot­ed the Great­est Music Per­for­mance Ever on the BBC (1972)

Dis­cov­er the Lost Ear­ly Com­put­er Art of Telidon, Canada’s TV Pro­to-Inter­net from the 1970s

When Movies Came on Vinyl: The Ear­ly-80s Engi­neer­ing Mar­vel and Mar­ket­ing Dis­as­ter That Was RCA’s Selec­taVi­sion

The Great­est Shot in Tele­vi­sion: Sci­ence His­to­ri­an James Burke Had One Chance to Nail This Scene … and Nailed It

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

How Leonardo da Vinci’s Procrastination Contributed to His Creativity

At the height of their pro­duc­tiv­i­ty as Bea­t­les, nei­ther Paul McCart­ney nor John Lennon could read or write music nota­tion. Clear­ly it did­n’t keep them from mak­ing a cul­tur­al impact, and as with so much else in life, they regard­ed it humor­ous­ly. As McCart­ney has said, they used to liken them­selves to ancient Egypt­ian pharaohs, who relied on scribes rather than being lit­er­ate them­selves. It’s worth con­sid­er­ing whether, all things con­sid­ered, this inabil­i­ty was real­ly a defi­cien­cy: not being rig­or­ous­ly schooled in the tra­di­tions and con­ven­tions of music could have giv­en them just the free­dom they need­ed to cre­ate fresh songs. And if you’ve strug­gled with pro­cras­ti­na­tion, have you con­sid­ered liken­ing your­self to Leonar­do da Vin­ci?

“Leonar­do’s dif­fi­cul­ties with stick­ing to tasks were per­va­sive from child­hood,” says a Sci­enceDai­ly sum­ma­ry of a 2019 paper by clin­i­cal neu­ro­sci­en­tist Mar­co Catani. “Accounts from biog­ra­phers and con­tem­po­raries show Leonar­do was con­stant­ly on the go, often jump­ing from task to task.” Regard­ing his life at a dis­tance of half a mil­len­ni­um, we may con­sid­er Leonar­do not just a genius but a high­ly pro­duc­tive one, with a body of work includ­ing numer­ous inven­tions built and unbuilt as well as paint­ings like Lady with an Ermine, The Last Sup­per, and the Mona Lisa — which near­ly joined the man’s pile of aban­doned projects. As Nico­las Cole writes at Inc., schol­ar­ship sug­gests that Leonar­do “paint­ed the Mona Lisa on and off for a few years start­ing in 1503, left it unfin­ished, and didn’t com­plete it until close to his death in 1519.”

“While paint­ing The Last Sup­per, Leonar­do would some­times stare at the work for an hour, final­ly make one small stroke, and then leave,” writes Wal­ter Isaac­son in his biog­ra­phy Leonar­do da Vin­ci. His expla­na­tion: “Men of lofty genius some­times accom­plish the most when they work least, for their minds are occu­pied with their ideas and the per­fec­tion of their con­cep­tions, to which they after­wards give form.” When the non-Renais­sance men of the world say things like that, it comes off as self-aggran­diz­ing excuse-mak­ing. Many, per­haps most of us have spent so much time telling our­selves we’re prepar­ing for a task that it just became anoth­er means of pro­cras­ti­na­tion. But “pro­cras­ti­nat­ing like Leonar­do requires work: it involves gath­er­ing all the pos­si­ble facts and ideas, and only after that allow­ing the col­lec­tion to sim­mer,” notes Isaac­son.

Not that the patrons frus­trat­ed by Leonar­do’s fail­ures to deliv­er could always keep that in mind. After he worked at the Vat­i­can for three years, Pope Leo X dis­missed him with the judg­ment that he would nev­er accom­plish any­thing, “for he begins by think­ing of the end of the work, before the begin­ning.” Even Leonar­do him­self made a deathbed apol­o­gy “to God and Man for leav­ing so much undone.” Hav­ing exam­ined the nature of both Leonar­do’s chal­lenges and his bril­liance, Catani comes to the con­clu­sion that he exhib­it­ed traits con­sis­tent with a con­di­tion only giv­en a name well with­in liv­ing mem­o­ry, Atten­tion Deficit Hyper­ac­tiv­i­ty Dis­or­der (ADHD). When we find our­selves com­pul­sive­ly flee­ing from the incom­plete work at hand, we’d do well to bear in mind not just Leonar­do’s exam­ple, but also the words of apho­rist Aaron Haspel: “We all suf­fer from a clus­ter of psy­cho­log­i­cal dis­or­ders; it used to be known as per­son­al­i­ty.”

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Neu­ro­science & Psy­chol­o­gy of Pro­cras­ti­na­tion, and How to Over­come It

What Is Pro­cras­ti­na­tion & How Can We Solve It? An Intro­duc­tion by One of the World’s Lead­ing Pro­cras­ti­na­tion Experts

The Art of Struc­tured Pro­cras­ti­na­tion

Miran­da July Teach­es You How to Avoid Pro­cras­ti­na­tion

Leonar­do da Vinci’s To-Do List from 1490: The Plan of a Renais­sance Man

Medieval Monks Com­plained About Con­stant Dis­trac­tions: Learn How They Worked to Over­come Them

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Watch the Completely Unsafe, Vertigo-Inducing Footage of Workers Building New York’s Iconic Skyscrapers

Would any­one in their right mind sign up for a job that had a high risk of mortality/disability? Or a job where red hot met­al is being hurled direct­ly at your face? Back in the 1920s this was the lot of the men who built New York’s sky­line, the men who con­struct­ed the Chrysler Build­ing and the Empire State, giant phal­lic sym­bols of America’s bur­geon­ing wealth and pow­er.

In this short clip (remas­tered and quite decent­ly col­orized) from the Smith­son­ian Chan­nel, we get a brief glimpse of the per­ils encoun­tered dai­ly on the build­ing site. Nick­named “rough­necks,” the nar­ra­tor points out that they work with­out har­ness­es, safe­ty ropes, or hard hats. Red hot riv­ets are thrown at men on the met­al beams high­er up and they are meant to catch them with what looks like a tin fun­nel. You can see the thinnest of ropes used to lift the now-icon­ic stain­less steel art-deco eagles into place by men wear­ing felt hats and no gloves.

The work­ers came from Europe, many who had trained on ships. Some came from Montreal’s Kah­nawake reser­va­tion. The lat­ter, known as Iron Walk­ers, were Mohawk, known for work­ing fear­less­ly at great heights.

“A lot of peo­ple think Mohawks aren’t afraid of heights; that’s not true,” Kyle Karon­hi­ak­tatie Beau­vais said in 2002. “We have as much fear as the next guy. The dif­fer­ence is that we deal with it bet­ter.”

Much of this work was doc­u­ment­ed by pho­tog­ra­ph­er Lewis Hine, who cap­tured a mix of brute strength and grav­i­ty-defy­ing courage along with pri­vate moments of rest, catch­ing a smoke or tak­ing lunch. You can see many of his famous pho­tos in this clip:

The Chrysler Build­ing was com­plet­ed in 1930, and reached a height of 1,046 feet (319 m), fea­tur­ing 77 floors. It held its fame as the world’s tallest build­ing for only 11 months. In 1931 work­ers com­plet­ed the Empire State Build­ing, stand­ing at 1,454 feet (443.2 m) and hous­ing 102 floors. (That’s dinky com­pared to the cur­rent record-hold­er: Dubai’s Burj Khal­i­fa, which stands at 2,722 feet (829.8 m)).

Heads up: The Smith­son­ian Chan­nel clip has some of the worst exam­ples of YouTube com­ments among the videos we’ve high­light­ed over the years, as if peo­ple still don’t work in ter­ri­ble and unsafe con­di­tions in order to feed their fam­i­lies and pay rent. And look! Here’s a guy who walks out onto the Chrysler eagle just for fun. Don’t say we didn’t warn you:

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2019.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Paris, New York & Havana Come to Life in Col­orized Films Shot Between 1890 and 1931

A Light Show on The Empire State Build­ing Gets Synced to the Dead’s Live Per­for­mance of “Touch of Grey” (6/24/2017)

Famous Archi­tects Dress as Their Famous New York City Build­ings (1931)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts.

The Art of Splendor Solis, the Most Glorious Illuminated Alchemical Manuscript of Them All

When it was pub­lished in the Unit­ed States in 1998, Har­ry Pot­ter and the Philoso­pher’s Stone was reti­tled Har­ry Pot­ter and the Sor­cer­er’s Stone. The jokes about the Amer­i­can read­ing pub­lic’s appar­ent aller­gy to the very word philoso­pher write them­selves, but the change was also unfor­tu­nate for more sub­stan­tial rea­sons. A “sor­cer­er’s stone” had no cul­tur­al res­o­nance at all, where­as the philoso­pher’s stone had been sought after since, at the very lat­est, the dawn of the fourth cen­tu­ry. Some sources claim that human knowl­edge of it goes all the way back to Adam, who got the word direct­ly from God. In any case, it’s no mys­tery why the philoso­pher’s stone has long cap­tured the col­lec­tive imag­i­na­tion of human­i­ty, giv­en that it’s reput­ed to turn lead into gold.

Among the rumored pos­ses­sors of the philoso­pher’s stone through­out his­to­ry is Salomon Tris­mosin, a six­teenth-cen­tu­ry Renais­sance alchemist who taught the influ­en­tial physi­cian Paracel­sus. He’s also cred­it­ed, at least in leg­ends, with writ­ing Splen­dor Solis, a book once no less desir­able than the next Har­ry Pot­ter vol­ume in that series’ hey­day.

Noth­ing so mun­dane as “a list of instruc­tions for whip­ping up a lit­tle alchem­i­cal soup in the hope of find­ing a nugget of arti­fi­cial gold in the pot at the end,” writes Jörg Völl­nagel at Medievalists.net, it rather “sets forth the phi­los­o­phy of alche­my, a world view accord­ing to which the human being (the alchemist) exists and acts in har­mo­ny with nature, respect­ing divine cre­ation and at the same time inter­ven­ing in the process­es under­ly­ing that cre­ation, all the while sup­port­ing its growth with the help of alche­my.”

As “a — or rather the – prime exam­ple of an illu­mi­nat­ed alchem­i­cal man­u­script,” Splen­dor Solis has drawn the fas­ci­na­tion of even such mod­ern fig­ures as William But­ler Yeats, James Joyce, and Umber­to Eco. It also became an impor­tant work in the sym­bol­ic-cul­tur­al uni­verse of Carl Jung, who, accord­ing to the Asso­ci­a­tion of Jun­gian Ana­lysts, “rec­og­nized the alchem­i­cal motifs and sym­bols as expres­sions of the indi­vid­u­a­tion process, the trans­for­ma­tion and inte­gra­tion of the psy­che. Splen­dor Solis, with its rich sym­bol­ism and pro­found alle­gories, res­onat­ed with Jung’s under­stand­ing of the arche­typ­al imagery and the trans­for­ma­tive nature of the human psy­che, con­tribut­ing to his the­o­ries on ana­lyt­i­cal psy­chol­o­gy.”

None of this is to say that Jung, or many oth­er esteemed intel­lec­tu­als of the past cou­ple of cen­turies, believed that base met­als real­ly could be trans­mut­ed to gold and sil­ver. But they did under­stand that the phe­nom­e­non of alche­my has much to reveal about the irre­solv­able exis­ten­tial nego­ti­a­tion between man and the world he inhab­its. It res­onates so deeply that it’s even worked in chil­dren’s lit­er­a­ture, and to great com­mer­cial suc­cess at that. You can even feel some of it just by gaz­ing upon Splen­dor Solis’ 22 gold-high­light­ed, book-of-hours-style illus­tra­tions at the web site of M. Moleiro, pub­lish­er of one fac­sim­i­le edi­tion. And who knows? If, as in the world of Har­ry Pot­ter, the philoso­pher’s stone also grants immor­tal­i­ty, per­haps Salomon Tris­mosin still walks some­where among us.

You can view pages of Splen­dor Solis on Wikipedia. Enter the image gallery here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Gallery of Fan­tas­ti­cal Alchem­i­cal Draw­ings

Isaac Newton’s Recipe for the Myth­i­cal ‘Philosopher’s Stone’ Is Being Dig­i­tized & Put Online (Along with His Oth­er Alche­my Man­u­scripts)

How the Bril­liant Col­ors of Medieval Illu­mi­nat­ed Man­u­scripts Were Made with Alche­my

Videos Recre­ate Isaac Newton’s Neat Alche­my Exper­i­ments: Watch Sil­ver Get Turned Into Gold

Hun­dreds of Medieval Med­ical Man­u­scripts with Strange Cures Get Dig­i­tized & Put Online: From Leech­es to Crushed Weasel Tes­ti­cles

The Vision­ary Mys­ti­cal Art of Carl Jung: See Illus­trat­ed Pages from the Red Book

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Why Reading Egyptian Hieroglyphics Is Easier Than You Think

We’ve fea­tured Egyp­tol­o­gist Ilona Regul­s­ki here on Open Cul­ture a few times before. Once, she explained how to read ancient Egypt­ian hiero­glyphs; anoth­er time, she told us what the Roset­ta Stone actu­al­ly says. It was, per­haps, inevitable that she would cross paths with Rob Watts, cre­ator of the YouTube chan­nel Rob­Words, whose videos we often post. When he made the jour­ney to Berlin’s Neues Muse­um, and specif­i­cal­ly to its Egypt­ian Muse­um, Regul­s­ki was the expert he sought out to tell him — and us — all about how hiero­glyphs, lit­er­al­ly “sacred carv­ings,” actu­al­ly make words.

Faced with a stone chis­eled full of hiero­glyphs, where do we start? Ancient Egypt­ian texts are all read from top to bot­tom, but some go left to right, and oth­ers right to left. To know which way, Regul­s­ki says, we must first look for sym­bols with a clear front and back, such as those in human or ani­mal shapes.

Some names are writ­ten in blocks, them­selves read from top to bot­tom — unless they con­tain a sign refer­ring to a god, which, of course, gets cus­tom­ar­i­ly ele­vat­ed to the top. But even if we under­stand the exact order in which we should read a giv­en string of hiero­glyphs, the ques­tion remains: how do we actu­al­ly do that read­ing?

Though many hiero­glyphs do appear to be fig­u­ra­tive, with their rec­og­niz­able forms of birds, bugs, arms, legs, and such, only some­times are they meant to rep­re­sent what they look like. Regul­s­ki explains that some of these signs are let­ters, and can be pro­nounced in much the same way as our own alpha­bet. What looks like a mouth sounds like an r; a high­ly abstract­ed bread loaf, t; a horned viper, ph; an owl, m. There is, of course, more to it. Signs can be com­bined not just to indi­cate sound, but also to dis­am­biguate mean­ing. As you may have noticed, hiero­glyph­ic writ­ing is also what Watts calls a “vow­el-free zone.” Exact­ly which of those sounds go where is, like cer­tain oth­er unre­solved aspects of hiero­glyphs, a mat­ter of ongo­ing expert inquiry. But Egyp­tol­o­gists, as see­ing Regul­s­ki in action reminds us, are a ded­i­cat­ed bunch.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How to Read Ancient Egypt­ian Hiero­glyphs: A British Muse­um Cura­tor Explains

How to Carve Hiero­glyphs Just Like the Ancient Egyp­tians Did

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

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the Roset­ta Stone, and How It Unlocked Our Under­stand­ing of Egypt­ian Hiero­glyphs

What the Roset­ta Stone Actu­al­ly Says

What Ancient Egypt­ian Sound­ed Like & How We Know It

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Daily Routine of Marcus Aurelius: How to Live Like a Stoic

Mar­cus Aure­lius did not have a smart­phone. In fact, he did­n’t have a phone of any kind, owing to the fact that he lived in the sec­ond cen­tu­ry, though we can be rea­son­ably cer­tain that he com­mand­ed more than enough mes­sen­gers to keep him­self informed around the clock. That’s because he was the Roman emper­or at a time when the Roman Empire was at its height. And so, none of us will ever know Mar­cus’ free­dom from dig­i­tal dis­trac­tion, nor will we know the intense respon­si­bil­i­ty he must have felt, no mat­ter how grand a title we attain in our own careers. Still, even here in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry, we would all do well to live by the exam­ple he left.

So believes Ryan Hol­i­day, a pop­u­lar­iz­er of Sto­icism, the school of thought pri­mar­i­ly defined by Mar­cus’ writ­ings, as well as those of states­man-drama­tist Seneca the Younger and for­mer slave Epicte­tus. In his Med­i­ta­tions, Mar­cus includ­ed enough detail about his own life that Hol­i­day could make the video above for his YouTube chan­nel Dai­ly Sto­ic, which breaks down the emper­or’s dai­ly rou­tine.

He rose at dawn, but not out of nat­ur­al incli­na­tion. He did his reflec­tion, includ­ing a real­is­tic adjust­ment of his expec­ta­tions for the day, before the siege of duties and requests began. He defined time for what Cal New­port, Hol­i­day’s col­league in the smarter regions of dig­i­tal-era self-help, would call deep work.

As with any pop­u­lar­iza­tion, Hol­i­day con­veys Mar­cus’ life and thought in terms the man him­self would­n’t rec­og­nize, even if they were trans­lat­ed into Latin. One fash­ion­able expres­sion he does­n’t use but could have is “work-life bal­ance.” “Mar­cus was not all about busi­ness,” Hol­i­day says. “We know that he was active in phys­i­cal exer­cise. We know that he enjoyed box­ing and wrestling and hunt­ing and horse­back rid­ing. We know that he would take walks.” He would also go to the Colos­se­um, though with­out hid­ing his lack of inter­est in glad­i­a­to­r­i­al com­bat. If he spent more time read­ing and think­ing in his prime seat than get­ting into the spir­it of the games, why attend at all? Per­haps he thought in the man­ner of Mar­tial, a poet of an ear­li­er gen­er­a­tion whose sen­ti­ments would nev­er­the­less ring true with Sto­ics ancient or mod­ern: “These are my times, and I must know them.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mar­cus Aure­lius’ 9 Rules for Liv­ing a Sto­ic Life

Why Jer­ry Sein­feld Lives by the Sto­ic Phi­los­o­phy of Mar­cus Aure­lius

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to Sto­icism, the Ancient Greek Phi­los­o­phy That Lets You Lead a Hap­py, Ful­fill­ing Life

How to Be a Sto­ic in Your Every­day Life: Phi­los­o­phy Pro­fes­sor Mas­si­mo Pigli­uc­ci Explains

What Is Sto­icism? A Short Intro­duc­tion to the Ancient Phi­los­o­phy That Can Help You Cope with Our Hard Mod­ern Times

The Dai­ly Rou­tines of Famous Cre­ative Peo­ple, Pre­sent­ed in an Inter­ac­tive Info­graph­ic

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Discover the Mundaneum, an Early 20th-Century “Internet” That Put the World’s Knowledge on Millions of Index Cards

Pitch to friends or fam­i­ly the idea of a trip to Mons, Bel­gium to vis­it the Mun­da­neum, and you may be met with a less-than-enthu­si­as­tic recep­tion. That’s unfor­tu­nate, since such an expe­ri­ence could fun­da­men­tal­ly change the way they regard tech­nol­o­gy they use every day. Though its name may seem to promise unre­lieved dull­ness today, the Mun­da­neum arose out of enor­mous high-tech ambi­tions. The idea behind it, as con­ceived by Bel­gian lawyers Paul Otlet and Hen­ri La Fontaine, was to gath­er, clas­si­fy, cen­tral­ize, and make uni­ver­sal­ly avail­able all human knowl­edge. This may sound famil­iar to any­one who’s used the inter­net, but it was a rather bold­er propo­si­tion at the turn of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry.

Otlet and La Fontaine’s “city of knowl­edge” may not have been ful­ly real­iz­able at that time, but tech­nol­o­gy had made it imag­in­able. The Dewey Dec­i­mal Sys­tem, with its stan­dard­ized card cat­a­logs, had been around since 1876. Start­ing in 1895, Otlet adapt­ed that basic tool to a far larg­er project: the Mun­da­neum took shape as a vast paper archive. Mil­lions of index cards, each record­ing bib­li­o­graph­ic details about a sin­gle book, arti­cle, or doc­u­ment, were filed away in row upon row of cat­a­log draw­ers. (See image below.)

“Otlet made this card cen­tral to his sys­tem,” writes Sid­ney Perkowitz at JSTOR. “Aim­ing to cap­ture every book ever pub­lished, the Mun­da­neum stored bib­li­o­graph­ic data for books under the UDC [Uni­ver­sal Dec­i­mal Clas­si­fi­ca­tion], along with mag­a­zine arti­cles, images, and more on over 15 mil­lion cards crammed into cat­a­log draw­ers.” Orig­i­nal­ly housed in Brus­sels’ Cinquan­te­naire Palace, the Mun­da­neum was meant to get its own build­ing designed by the for­ward-think­ing Le Cor­busier by the end of the nine­teen-twen­ties. Alas, it was nev­er built, and after the Nazi inva­sion of 1940, the Mun­da­neum was scrapped for a Third Reich art exhi­bi­tion.

Dis­cus­sions of the Mun­da­neum in our time often high­light what Otlet (1868–1944), despite the pro­jec­t’s many tribu­la­tions, even­tu­al­ly envi­sioned as “a glob­al ‘réseau’ or net­work of ‘elec­tric tele­scopes.’ These ear­ly work­sta­tions were to be linked to the Mun­da­neum by tele­phone and the new tech­nol­o­gy of tele­vi­sion. A user would phone in a query, and the answer in a book or oth­er source would appear dis­played on a per­son­al screen, which could be split to show mul­ti­ple results.” Con­vinced that all homes would even­tu­al­ly have access to the net­work, he con­sid­ered even the pos­si­bil­i­ty of “data shar­ing and social inter­ac­tions among its users.” This dream of the inter­net avant la tech­nolo­gie is now enshrined at the Mun­da­neum muse­um, which is open five days a week. Alter­na­tive­ly, you can point your elec­tric tele­scope to its online cat­a­log any time.

Image by Zin­neke, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

via JSTOR

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Rise and Fall of the Great Library of Alexan­dria: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

The First Music Stream­ing Ser­vice Was Invent­ed in 1881: Dis­cov­er the Théâtro­phone

Mark Twain Pre­dicts the Inter­net in 1898: Read His Sci-Fi Crime Sto­ry, “From The ‘Lon­don Times’ in 1904”

Meet the Syn­topi­con: The Ambi­tious Index That Tried to Orga­nize All of West­ern Thought (1952)

What the Entire Inter­net Looked Like in 1973: An Old Map Gets Found in a Pile of Research Papers

Do All Roads Lead to Phi­los­o­phy on Wikipedia?: They Do About 97.3% of the Time

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

A 1932 Illustrated Map of Harlem’s Night Clubs: From the Cotton Club to the Savoy Ballroom

32 Harlem Map

Harlem’s under­go­ing anoth­er Renais­sance, and has been for years now. Crime’s down, real estate prices are up, and throngs of pale-faced hip­sters are descend­ing to check the area out.

Sure, something’s gained, but something’s lost, too.

For today’s hol­i­day in Harlem, we’re going to climb in the Way­back Machine. Set the dial for 1932. Don’t for­get your map. (Click the image above to view a larg­er ver­sion.)

This deliri­ous arti­fact comes cour­tesy of Elmer Simms Camp­bell (1906–1971), an artist whose race proved an imped­i­ment to career advance­ment in his native Mid­west. Not long after relo­cat­ing to New York City, he had the good for­tune to be befriend­ed by the great Cab Cal­loway, star of the Cot­ton Club. Hi-de-hi-de-hi-de-ho! Check the low­er left cor­ner of your map.

You may notice that the com­pass rose devi­ates rather dras­ti­cal­ly from estab­lished norms. As you’ve no doubt heard, the Bronx is up, and the Battery’s down, but not in this case. Were you to choose those trees in the upper left cor­ner as your start­ing point, you’d be at the top of Cen­tral Park, basi­cal­ly equidis­tant from the east and west sides. (Take the 2 or the 3 to 110th Street…)

But keep in mind that this map is not drawn to scale. I know it looks like the joints are jump­ing from the sec­ond you step off the curb, but in real­i­ty, you’ll need to hoof it 21 blocks from the top of Cen­tral Park to 131st Street for things to start cookin’. Hope­ful­ly, this geo­graph­i­cal lib­er­ty won’t get you too hot under the col­lar. And if it does, well, it may be Pro­hi­bi­tion, but stress-reliev­ing bev­er­ages await you in every loca­tion list­ed, as well as in some 500 speakeasies Camp­bell allowed to remain on the down low.

If that does­n’t do it for you, there’s a guy sell­ing reefer across the street from Earl “Snake­hips” Tuck­er.

As you stag­ger back and forth between Sev­enth Avenue and Lenox (now referred to as Adam Clay­ton Pow­ell Jr. Boule­vard and Mal­colm X Boule­vard), bear in mind that Camp­bell was the first African-Amer­i­can car­toon­ist to be nation­al­ly pub­lished in the New York­er, Play­boy, and Esquire, whose bug-eyed, now retired mas­cot, Esky, was a Camp­bell cre­ation.

In the end, he was an extreme­ly suc­cess­ful illus­tra­tor, though few of his cre­ations are reflec­tive of his race.

The map above, which did dou­ble duty as end­pa­pers for Calloway’s auto­bi­og­ra­phy, Of Min­nie the Moocher and Me, is far clos­er to home.

Right above, see Cab Cal­loway per­form “Hotcha Razz Ma Tazz” at the famous Cot­ton Club, in Harlem, 1935.

via Big Think

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Cab Calloway’s “Hep­ster Dic­tio­nary,” a 1939 Glos­sary of the Lin­go (the “Jive”) of the Harlem Renais­sance

Dis­cov­er Langston Hugh­es’ Rent Par­ty Ads & The Harlem Renais­sance Tra­di­tion of Play­ing Gigs to Keep Roofs Over Heads

Duke Ellington’s Sym­pho­ny in Black, Star­ring a 19-Year-old Bil­lie Hol­i­day

Rare Record­ing of Con­tro­ver­sial­ist, Jour­nal­ist and Amer­i­can Lit­er­ary & Social Crit­ic, H.L. Menck­en

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and the­ater mak­er in NYC.

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