See Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring in 3D in a New 108-Gigapixel Scan

You may believe that you’ve had a close enough view of Johannes Ver­meer’s Girl with a Pearl Ear­ring. You may have gone to The Hague and seen the paint­ing in per­son at the Mau­rit­shuis. You may have zoomed into the ten bil­lion-pix­el scan we fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture in 2021. But if you haven’t spent time with the new 108 bil­lion-pix­el scan, can you real­ly claim to have seen Girl with a Pearl Ear­ring at all?

At that 108-gigapix­el res­o­lu­tion, notes Jason Kot­tke, “each pix­el is 1.3 microns in size — 1000 microns is 1 mil­lime­ter.” You can learn more about the tech­nol­o­gy behind the project in this mak­ing-of video pro­duced by Hirox Europe, the local branch of the Japan­ese dig­i­tal micro­scope com­pa­ny respon­si­ble for both the ten bil­lion-pix­el scan and this 108 bil­lion-pix­el one, which neces­si­tat­ed 88 hours of non-stop scan­ning this rel­a­tive­ly small can­vas of 15 inch­es by 17.5 inch­es, a process that result­ed in 41,000 3D images.

Yes, 3D images: though Girl with a Pearl Ear­ring, known as “the Mona Lisa of the North,” may be known far and wide in flat rep­re­sen­ta­tions on pages, screens, posters, and T‑shirts, it is, after all, a work of oil on can­vas.

Ver­meer achieved his ultra-real­is­tic effects not just by putting the right col­ors in the right places, but apply­ing them at the right thick­ness­es and with the right tex­tures — all of which have been repli­cat­ed in a “mega-sized” phys­i­cal 3D print, 100 times larg­er than the orig­i­nal work, com­mis­sioned by the Mau­rit­shuis for its Who’s that Girl? exhi­bi­tion.

You can per­form your own topo­graph­i­cal exam­i­na­tion of sec­tions of the paint­ing — the eyes, the lips, a fold of the tur­ban, the ear­ring, and even the reflec­tion on the ear­ring — by click­ing the “3D” but­ton at the bot­tom of the scan’s view­ing inter­face.  A look this close reveals much about how Ver­meer cre­at­ed this world-famous image, as well as how it’s weath­ered the past 360 years. It does not reveal, of course, the answers to such long-stand­ing mys­ter­ies as the iden­ti­ty of the sub­ject or the moti­va­tions behind her strik­ing pre­sen­ta­tion. Whether or not the girl with the pearl ear­ring even exist­ed, we can, at this point, be sure of one thing: she must feel seen. Enter the new 108 bil­lion-pix­el scan here.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed con­tent:

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Hear the First Recording of the Human Voice (1860)

When inven­tor Édouard-Léon Scott de Mar­t­inville sang a nurs­ery rhyme into his phonoau­to­gram in 1860, he had no plans to ever play back this record­ing. A pre­cur­sor to the wax cylin­der, the phonoau­to­gram took inputs for the study of sound waves, but could not be turned into an out­put device. How amaz­ing then, that 150 or so years lat­er, we can hear the voice of Scott in what is now con­sid­ered the first ever record­ing of human sound.

What you will hear in the above video are the var­i­ous stages of recon­struct­ing and reverse engi­neer­ing the voice that sang on that April day in 1860, until, like wip­ing away decades of dirt and soot, the orig­i­nal art is revealed.

Scott had looked to the inven­tion of pho­tog­ra­phy and won­dered if some­thing sim­i­lar could be done with sound waves, focused as he was on improv­ing stenog­ra­phy. And so the phonoau­to­gram took in sound vibra­tions through a diaphragm, which moved a sty­lus against a rotat­ing cylin­der cov­ered in lamp­black. What was left was a wig­gly line in a con­cen­tric cir­cle.

But how to play them back? That was the prob­lem. Scott’s inven­tion nev­er turned a prof­it and he went back to book­selling. The inven­tion and some of the paper cylin­ders went into muse­ums.

In 2008, Amer­i­can audio his­to­ri­ans dis­cov­ered the scrib­bles and turned to the Lawrence Berke­ley Nation­al Lab­o­ra­to­ry and a soft­ware called IRENE. The soft­ware was designed to extract sounds from wax cylin­ders with­out touch­ing the del­i­cate sur­faces, and the first pass revealed what they thought at first was a young woman or child singing “Au Clair de la lune,” the French nurs­ery rhyme (not the Debussy piano work).

How­ev­er, a fur­ther exam­i­na­tion of Scott’s notes revealed that the record­ing was at a much slow­er speed, and it was a man—most prob­a­bly Scott—singing the lul­la­by.

The video shows the stages that brought Scott back to life: Denois­ing a lot of extra­ne­ous sound; stretch­ing the record­ing back to nat­ur­al time; “tun­ing and quantizing”–correcting for imper­fec­tions in the human-turned cylin­der; clean­ing up har­mon­ics; and final­ly adding fur­ther har­mon­ics, reverb and a stereo effect.

The result is less an unrec­og­niz­able ghost sig­nal and more a touch­ing sound of human­i­ty, desir­ing some­how to have their voice live on.

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

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Old­est Voic­es That We Can Still Hear: Hear Audio Record­ings of Ghost­ly Voic­es from the 1800s

Down­load 10,000 of the First Record­ings of Music Ever Made, Cour­tesy of the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cal­i­for­nia-San­ta Bar­bara 

Opti­cal Scan­ning Tech­nol­o­gy Lets Researchers Recov­er Lost Indige­nous Lan­guages from Old Wax Cylin­der Record­ings

Hear Singers from the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Opera Record Their Voic­es on Tra­di­tion­al Wax Cylin­ders

400,000+ Sound Record­ings Made Before 1923 Have Entered the Pub­lic Domain

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts. You can read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

 

Was William Shakespeare’s Marriage Closer—and Less Estranged—Than We Thought?: A 17th-Century Letter Changes What We Know About the Bard’s Life.

Image via Here­ford Cathe­dral and Here­ford Map­pa Mun­di Trust

At this point, every aspect of William Shake­speare’s life has pro­duced more spec­u­la­tion than any of us could digest in a life­time. That goes for his pro­fes­sion­al life, of course, but also his even more scant­i­ly doc­u­ment­ed per­son­al life. As far as his mar­riage is con­cerned, the known facts are these: on Novem­ber 27th, 1582 a mar­riage license was issued in Worces­ter to the 18-year-old William Shake­speare and the approx­i­mate­ly 26-year-old Anne Hath­away. Six months lat­er came the first of their three chil­dren, Susan­na. For most of his pro­fes­sion­al life, William lived in Lon­don, while Anne — willed only her hus­band’s “sec­ond-best bed” — remained in his home­town of Strat­ford-upon-Avon.

Accord­ing to one com­mon inter­pre­ta­tion, the Shake­spear­es’ was a shot­gun wed­ding avant la let­tre, moti­vat­ed less by romance than expe­di­en­cy. That would cer­tain­ly explain their appar­ent choice to live apart, though William’s career would prob­a­bly have brought him to Lon­don any­way, and with­out a good rea­son to be in the city, it was­n’t a bad idea to keep the kids out of plague range. (As for his best bed, it would cus­tom­ar­i­ly have been reserved for guests.) But accord­ing to a new inter­pre­ta­tion of an old doc­u­ment by the Uni­ver­si­ty of Bris­tol pro­fes­sor Matthew Steggle, the cou­ple could not only have remained in com­mu­ni­ca­tion, but also lived togeth­er in the cap­i­tal for a time.

“Here­ford Cathe­dral Library holds a frag­men­tary sev­en­teenth-cen­tu­ry let­ter addressed to a ‘Mrs Shak­spaire,’ con­cern­ing her husband’s deal­ings with a father­less appren­tice,” writes Steggle in his research paper recent­ly pub­lished in the jour­nal Shake­speare. “Of the Shake­spear­es record­ed in Lon­don, William Shake­speare is the only viable can­di­date to fit with the letter’s details.” In Steggle’s analy­sis, it “paints a pic­ture of William and Anne Shake­speare togeth­er in Lon­don, and liv­ing, per­haps around 1599–1603, in Trin­i­ty Lane. It fur­ther sug­gests an Anne Shake­speare who is not absent from her husband’s Lon­don life, but present and engaged in his finan­cial and social net­works.”

The New York Times’ Ephrat Livni quotes Steggle as say­ing that “this let­ter, if it belongs to them, offers a glimpse of the Shake­spear­es togeth­er in Lon­don, both involved in social net­works and busi­ness mat­ters, and, on the occa­sion of this request, pre­sent­ing a unit­ed front against impor­tu­nate requests to help poor orphans.” This, Livni adds, would “lend some heft to fem­i­nist read­ings of Shakespeare’s life,” as well as to the pop-cul­ture trend of “rethink­ing the mar­riage and Hathaway’s role in it.” Each era thus con­tin­ues to cre­ate the Shake­speare for whom it feels the need — and the Mrs. Shake­speare as well.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Free Course: A Sur­vey of Shakespeare’s Plays

Why Should We Read William Shake­speare? Four Ani­mat­ed Videos Make the Case

Behold Shakespeare’s First Folio, the First Pub­lished Col­lec­tion of Shakespeare’s Plays, Pub­lished 400s Year Ago (1623)

The Only Sur­viv­ing Script Writ­ten by Shake­speare Is Now Online

Did Shake­speare Write Pulp Fic­tion? (No, But If He Did, It’d Sound Like This)

Did Bach’s Wife Com­pose Some of “His” Mas­ter­pieces? A New Doc­u­men­tary Says Yes

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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


When the Romans pushed their way north into the Ger­man provinces, they built (cir­ca 90 AD) the Saal­burg, a fort that pro­tect­ed the bound­ary between the Roman Empire and the Ger­man­ic trib­al ter­ri­to­ries. At its peak, 2,000 peo­ple lived in the fort and the attached vil­lage, and it remained active until around 260 AD.

Some­time dur­ing the 19th cen­tu­ry, the Saal­burg was redis­cov­ered and exca­vat­ed, then lat­er ful­ly recon­struct­ed. It’s now a UNESCO World Her­itage site and hous­es the Saal­burg Muse­um, which con­tains many Roman relics, includ­ing a 2,000-year-old shoe, appar­ent­ly found in a local well.

If you think the Ital­ians have mas­tered the craft of mak­ing shoes, well, they don’t have much on their ances­tors. Accord­ing to the site Romans Across Europe, the Romans “were the orig­i­na­tors of the entire-foot-encas­ing shoe.” The site con­tin­ues:

There was a wide vari­ety of shoes and san­dals for men and women. Most were con­struct­ed like mil­i­tary cali­gae, with a one-piece upper nailed between lay­ers of the sole. Many had large open-work areas made by cut­ting or punch­ing cir­cles, tri­an­gles, squares, ovals, etc. in rows or grid-like pat­terns. Oth­ers were more enclosed, hav­ing only holes for the laces. Some very dain­ty women’s and children’s shoes still had thick nailed soles.

The image above, which puts all of the Romans’ shoe-mak­ing skill on dis­play, comes to us via Red­dit and imgur.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2016.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Archae­ol­o­gists Dis­cov­er an Ancient Roman San­dal with Nails Used for Tread

How Wear­ing Ridicu­lous­ly Long Point­ed Shoes Became a Medieval Fash­ion Trend

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

Exquis­ite 2300-Year-Old Scythi­an Woman’s Boot Pre­served in the Frozen Ground of Siberia

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The Simple, Ingenious Design of the Ancient Roman Javelin: How the Romans Engineered a Remarkably Effective Weapon

As Mike Tyson once put it, with char­ac­ter­is­tic straight­for­ward­ness, “Every­body has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” Back in the time of the Roman Repub­lic and the ear­ly Roman Empire, all of Rome’s ene­mies must have had a plan until pila punched through their shields. A kind of javelin with a wood­en shaft and a sharp iron shank, the pilum came in both long and short lengths. Short pila had the advan­tage of dis­tance, but long pila had the advan­tage of pow­er, as well as the con­ve­nient fea­ture — whether delib­er­ate­ly or acci­den­tal­ly imple­ment­ed at first — that their shanks would more read­i­ly bend after impact, mak­ing them imprac­ti­cal to remove from the shields they’d pen­e­trat­ed.

With his shield thus made unwieldy by one or more pila, an advanc­ing com­bat­ant would thus be forced to dis­card it entire­ly — assum­ing he was still in the con­di­tion to do so. As you can see vivid­ly demon­strat­ed in the Smith­son­ian Chan­nel video above, a pilum land­ing in the cen­ter of a shield could eas­i­ly skew­er any­one stand­ing behind it.

His­to­ry has it that Roman sol­diers were also trained to throw their pila where ene­my shields over­lapped, pin­ning them togeth­er and thus ren­der­ing twice as much of their defense use­less. After a vic­to­ry, pila could be gath­ered from the bat­tle­field for refur­bish­ment, an exam­ple of qua­si-indus­tri­al pro­duc­tion under­gird­ed by Roman mil­i­tary might.

Like all weapon­ry — indeed, like all tech­nol­o­gy — the pilum had its hey­day. Poly­bius’ His­to­ries cred­its it as an impor­tant fac­tor in the Roman vic­to­ry at the Bat­tle of Tela­m­on in 225 BC. But by the third cen­tu­ry AD, it was phased out, hav­ing become an obso­lete anti-infantry weapon in the face of the evolv­ing equip­ment and tac­tics of Ger­man­ic tribes and Per­sian cav­al­ry. Nev­er­the­less, sim­i­lar javelin-like tools of war evolved into oth­er forms, out­last­ing the Roman Empire itself and even per­sist­ing into the ear­ly age of gun­pow­der. Now, when very few of us face the threat of impale­ment by pila or their suc­ces­sors, we can appre­ci­ate the skill it takes to throw them — as Philip Roth described, in his final nov­el, with an elo­quence very dif­fer­ent from Tyson’s — in the realm of sport.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Archae­ol­o­gists Dis­cov­er an Ancient Roman San­dal with Nails Used for Tread

Ancient Greek Armor Gets Test­ed in an 11-Hour Bat­tle Sim­u­la­tion Inspired by the Ili­ad

Watch Accu­rate Recre­ations of Medieval Ital­ian Longsword Fight­ing Tech­niques, All Based on a Man­u­script from 1404

A Close Look at Beowulf-Era Hel­mets & Swords, Cour­tesy of the British Muse­um

How Many U.S. Marines Could Bring Down the Roman Empire?

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Greatest Art Heist in History: How the Mona Lisa Was Stolen from the Louvre (1911)

If you hap­pen to go to the Lou­vre to have a look at Leonar­do da Vin­ci’s Mona Lisa, you’ll find that you can’t get espe­cial­ly close to it. That owes in part to the ever-present crowd of cell­phone pho­tog­ra­phers, and more so to the paint­ing’s hav­ing been installed behind a wood­en bar­ri­er and encased in a stur­dy-look­ing glass box. These are suit­able pre­cau­tions, you might imag­ine, for the sin­gle most famous work of art in the world. But there was­n’t always so much secu­ri­ty, and indeed, nor was Mona Lisa always so dear­ly prized. A lit­tle more than a cen­tu­ry ago, you could just walk out of the Lou­vre with it.

You could do so, that is, pro­vid­ed you had a knowl­edge of the Lou­vre’s inter­nal oper­a­tions, the nerve to pluck a mas­ter­piece off its walls, and the will­ing­ness to spend a night in one of the muse­um’s clos­ets. Vin­cen­zo Perug­gia, an Ital­ian immi­grant who’d worked there as a clean­er and reframer of paint­ings, had all those qual­i­ties. On the evening of Sun­day, August 20th, 1911, Perug­gia entered the Lou­vre wear­ing one of its stan­dard-issue employ­ee coats. The next day, he emerged into an almost emp­ty muse­um, closed as it was to the pub­lic every Mon­day. You can find out what hap­pened next by watch­ing the Pri­mal Space video above, which visu­al­izes each step of the heist and its after­math.

Why did Perug­gia dare to steal the Mona Lisa in broad day­light, an act wor­thy of Arsène Lupin (him­self cre­at­ed just a few years ear­li­er)? Dis­cov­ered a cou­ple years lat­er, hav­ing hid­den the paint­ing in the false bot­tom of a trunk near­ly all the while, Perug­gia cast him­self as an Ital­ian patri­ot attempt­ing to return a piece of cul­tur­al pat­ri­mo­ny to its home­land. Anoth­er pos­si­bil­i­ty, elab­o­rat­ed upon in the video, is that he was noth­ing more than a pawn in a larg­er scheme mas­ter­mind­ed by the forg­er Eduar­do de Val­fier­no, who planned to make sev­er­al copies of the miss­ing mas­ter­piece and sell them to cred­u­lous Amer­i­can mil­lion­aires.

That, in any case, is what one Sat­ur­day Evening Post sto­ry report­ed in 1932, though it could well be that, in real­i­ty, Perug­gia act­ed alone, out of no high­er motive than a need for cash. (In a way, it would have been a more inter­est­ing sto­ry had the cul­prits actu­al­ly been Pablo Picas­so and Guil­laume Apol­li­naire, whose unre­lat­ed pos­ses­sion of stat­ues stolen from the Lou­vre drew police sus­pi­cion.) How­ev­er the heist occurred, it would­n’t have hap­pened if its object had­n’t already been wide­ly known, at least among art enthu­si­asts. But soon after La Gio­con­da was returned to her right­ful place, she became the face of art itself — and the rea­son muse­ums do things much dif­fer­ent­ly now than they did in the nine­teen-tens. The Lou­vre, you’ll notice, is now closed on Tues­days instead.

Relat­ed con­tent:

What Makes Leonardo’s Mona Lisa a Great Paint­ing?: An Expla­na­tion in 15 Min­utes

How the Mona Lisa Went From Being Bare­ly Known, to Sud­den­ly the Most Famous Paint­ing in the World (1911)

What Makes the Mona Lisa a Great Paint­ing: A Deep Dive

Why Leonar­do da Vinci’s Great­est Paint­ing is Not the Mona Lisa

How France Hid the Mona Lisa & Oth­er Lou­vre Mas­ter­pieces Dur­ing World War II

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

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

A Meditative Tour of Fallingwater, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Architectural Masterpiece

Frank Lloyd Wright’s Falling­wa­ter is a “house muse­um,” first designed as a res­i­dence, and now open to the pub­lic. In fact, as the insti­tu­tion’s direc­tor Justin Gun­ther explains in the Open Space video above, it’s “the first house of the mod­ern move­ment to open as a pub­lic site,” hav­ing begun offer­ing tours in 1964. The open­ness of Falling­wa­ter owes a great deal to the efforts of Edgar Kauf­mann Jr., the son of the Pitts­burgh depart­ment-store mag­nate who com­mis­sioned the house in the first place. The fam­i­ly hap­pened to own a piece of land in south­ern Penn­syl­va­nia that was once an employ­ee retreat, and Kauf­mann fils, high on a read­ing of Wright’s recent­ly pub­lished auto­bi­og­ra­phy, knew just who should design a week­end home for the site.

Not that it was a sim­ple process, even for the son of a tycoon. But luck­i­ly, “Frank Lloyd Wright had just estab­lished an appren­tice­ship pro­gram at Tal­iesin.” The young Kauf­mann applied, “and of course, Frank Lloyd Wright, know­ing who the Kauf­manns were, could sniff out a good poten­tial client.”

Soon accept­ed, Kauf­mann spent about six months study­ing under Wright, dur­ing which time his vis­it­ing par­ents also became “enam­ored with Wright’s ideas of organ­ic archi­tec­ture.” No oth­er liv­ing archi­tect, per­haps, could deliv­er on the promise of a house ful­ly inspired by its nat­ur­al con­text, which in this case includ­ed a water­fall. Still, one won­ders if even his most eager clients under­stood just what they were get­ting into.

“The Kauf­manns thought that they were going to have a house that was look­ing at the falls, and then, of course, Wright had dif­fer­ent ideas. He thought that if you put the most dra­mat­ic part of a land­scape in your view con­stant­ly, it would become some­thing that’s tire­some. You would just become used to it.” But “if you were forced out into the land­scape to see it, then it would always have an impact.” Built atop the water­fall instead, by local labor­ers and using stone quar­ried right there at the site, the house makes a unique impres­sion, and one that makes per­fect aes­thet­ic sense: as Gun­ther puts it, “the water­fall can’t live with­out the house, and the house can’t live with­out the water­fall.” Nor, these near­ly nine decades after the main build­ing’s com­ple­tion, is the course of Amer­i­can archi­tec­ture quite imag­in­able with­out Falling­wa­ter.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Frank Lloyd Wright Became Frank Lloyd Wright: A Video Intro­duc­tion

130+ Pho­tographs of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Mas­ter­piece Falling­wa­ter

12 Famous Frank Lloyd Wright Hous­es Offer Vir­tu­al Tours: Hol­ly­hock House, Tal­iesin West, Falling­wa­ter & More

An Ani­mat­ed Tour of Falling­wa­ter, One of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Finest Cre­ations

Inside the Beau­ti­ful Home Frank Lloyd Wright Designed for His Son (1952)

A Beau­ti­ful Visu­al Tour of Tir­ran­na, One of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Remark­able, Final Cre­ations

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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

Hōshi, a tra­di­tion­al Japan­ese inn in Komat­su, Japan, holds the dis­tinc­tion of being the sec­ond old­est hotel in the world—and “the old­est still run­ning fam­i­ly busi­ness in the world.” Built in 718 AD, Hōshi has been oper­at­ed by the same fam­i­ly for 46 con­sec­u­tive gen­er­a­tions. Count them. 46 gen­er­a­tions.

Japan is a coun­try with deep tra­di­tions. And when you’re born into a fam­i­ly that’s the care­tak­er of a 1,300-year-old insti­tu­tion, you find your­self strug­gling with issues most of us can’t imag­ine. That’s par­tic­u­lar­ly true when you’re the daugh­ter of the Hōshi fam­i­ly, a mod­ern woman who wants to break free from tra­di­tion. And yet his­to­ry and strong fam­i­ly expec­ta­tions keep call­ing her back.

The sto­ry of Hōshi Ryokan is poignant­ly told in a short doc­u­men­tary above. It was shot in 2014 by the Ger­man film­mak­er Fritz Schu­mann.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in April, 2015.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the Old­est Com­pa­ny in the World, Japan’s Tem­ple-Builder Kongō Gumi, Has Sur­vived Near­ly 1,500 Years

Dis­cov­er Japan’s Old­est Sur­viv­ing Cook­book Ryori Mono­gatari (1643)

The Old­est Restau­rant in the World: How Madrid’s Sobri­no de Botín Has Kept the Oven Hot Since 1725

Ear­ly Japan­ese Ani­ma­tions: The Ori­gins of Ani­me (1917–1931)

A Hyp­not­ic Look at How Japan­ese Samu­rai Swords Are Made

Female Samu­rai War­riors Immor­tal­ized in 19th Cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Pho­tos

Hand-Col­ored 1860s Pho­tographs Reveal the Last Days of Samu­rai Japan

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