How Russian Artists Imagined in 1914 What Moscow Would Look Like in 2259

In the days of pop­u­lar retro­fu­tur­ism—say, the first half of the twen­ti­eth century—people tend­ed to imag­ine the world of tomor­row look­ing very much like the world of today, only with a lot more fly­ing cars, mono­rails, and video­phones. This is true whether those doing the imag­in­ing were titans of indus­try, mar­ket­ing mavens, ide­al­is­tic Sovi­ets, or sub­jects of the Tsar, though we might think that peo­ple liv­ing under an ancient monar­chi­cal sys­tem might not expect much change. In some ways we might be right, but as we can see in the 1914 post­cards here—printed as Rus­sia entered World War I—the coun­try did antic­i­pate a mod­ern, tech­no­log­i­cal future, though one that still close­ly resem­bled its present.

Per­haps few but the most far-sight­ed of Rus­sians pre­dict­ed what the ail­ing empire would endure in the years to come—the dis­as­ter of the Great War, and the waves of Rev­o­lu­tion and Civ­il War. Cer­tain­ly, who­ev­er paint­ed these images fore­saw no such cat­a­stroph­ic upheaval.

Although pur­port­ing to show us a view of Moscow in the 23rd cen­tu­ry, they show the city very hap­pi­ly “still under monar­chi­cal rule,” writes A Jour­ney Through Russ­ian Cul­ture, going about its dai­ly life just as it did over three hun­dred years ear­li­er, “with the addi­tion of every­thing from sub­ways to air­borne pub­lic trans­porta­tion, things prob­a­bly seen as stan­dard meth­ods of trans­port for the future.”

Of course, there would be hot-rod­ded sleds on St. Peters­burg High­way with head­lights, fan­cy wind­shields, and what look like Christ­mas elves perched in them. Lubyan­s­ka Square, fur­ther up, would still host mil­i­tary parades of men on horse­back, as chil­dren whiz by on motor­bikes and sub­way trains rum­ble under­neath. The Cen­tral Rail­way Sta­tion, above, might seem entire­ly unchanged, until one looks up, and sees ele­vat­ed trams stream­ing out of the ter­mi­nal like spider’s silk. Red Square, how­ev­er, just below, would appar­ent­ly host drag races, while peo­ple in trams and giant diri­gi­bles look on from above.

The images have a children’s book qual­i­ty about them and the fes­tive air of hol­i­day cards. They were appar­ent­ly redis­cov­ered only recent­ly when a choco­late com­pa­ny called Eyinem reprint­ed them on their pack­ag­ing. Like so much retro­fu­tur­ism, these seem—in their bustling, yet safe, cheer­ful orderliness—tailor-made for nos­tal­gic trips through Petro­vsky Park, rather than imag­i­na­tive leaps into the great unknown. For that, we must turn to Russ­ian Futur­ism, which, both before and after World War I and the Rev­o­lu­tion, imag­ined, helped bring about, but did­n’t quite sur­vive the mas­sive tech­no­log­i­cal and polit­i­cal dis­rup­tion of the next two decades.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sovi­et Artists Envi­sion a Com­mu­nist Utopia in Out­er Space

How the Sovi­ets Imag­ined in 1960 What the World Would Look in 2017: A Gallery of Retro-Futur­is­tic Draw­ings

Down­load Russ­ian Futur­ist Book Art (1910–1915): The Aes­thet­ic Rev­o­lu­tion Before the Polit­i­cal Rev­o­lu­tion

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC.

Tatlin’s Tower, One of the Most Ambitious Buildings That Was Never Built

It’s no small project to found a new soci­ety, espe­cial­ly when you’re doing it on the scale of a place like Rus­sia. Apart from the con­sid­er­able prac­ti­cal chal­lenges it entails, there’s also the need for sym­bols bold enough to rep­re­sent the under­ly­ing ide­al. The avant-garde artist Vladimir Tatlin took it upon him­self to cre­ate just such a sym­bol in the years after the Russ­ian Rev­o­lu­tion. The result is offi­cial­ly known as the Mon­u­ment to the Third Inter­na­tion­al, named for the orga­ni­za­tion tasked with the pro­mo­tion of world com­mu­nism (often abbre­vi­at­ed to Com­intern). But it’s more com­mon­ly referred to as Tatlin’s Tow­er, per­haps in trib­ute to the artist’s par­tic­u­lar vision — one too ambi­tious for its real-life con­struc­tion even to begin.

“As part of a large-scale pro­gram to replace old czarist mon­u­ments with mon­u­ments to the rev­o­lu­tion, the huge struc­ture was both a sym­bol­ic sculp­ture and func­tion­al archi­tec­ture,” write Smarthis­to­ry’s Charles Cramer and Kim Grant. “Designed to strad­dle the Neva riv­er in St. Peters­burg, the 1300 foot (400 meter) iron and glass Mon­u­ment would sur­pass Paris’s Eif­fel Tow­er in both scale and com­plex­i­ty.”

Indeed, it would stand taller than the yet-to-be-con­struct­ed Empire State Build­ing, at least if you don’t count its anten­na. Con­sist­ing of “a con­tract­ing dou­ble helix that spi­rals upward, sup­port­ed by a huge diag­o­nal gird­er,” Tatlin’s Tow­er would con­tain four sub-struc­tures, each rotat­ing at a dif­fer­ent speed.

Yes, rotat­ing, and “com­plet­ing a full rev­o­lu­tion in accor­dance with the impor­tance of the insti­tu­tions con­duct­ing their busi­ness on the inside,” as Tim Brinkof writes at Big Think. “The cube that con­tains the leg­is­la­ture would have com­plet­ed a full rota­tion once per year. The pyra­mid above, hous­ing the offices of par­ty exec­u­tives, would have need­ed a month. The infor­ma­tion cen­ter, locat­ed at the very peak, would have rotat­ed once a day, offer­ing a 360-degree view of Pet­ro­grad,” as St. Peters­burg was known in 1920. (It would be re-named Leningrad in 1924 before going back to St. Peters­burg in 1991, after the end of the Sovi­et era.) You can learn more about how it all worked from the Archi­tec­ture Enthu­si­ast video at the top of the post, and the one from Side­pro­jects just above.

“Tatlin’s Tow­er was designed dur­ing a time when Com­mu­nist rule was still nascent and par­ty lead­ers sought to estab­lish a new and dis­tinct­ly social­ist iden­ti­ty through art,” writes Brinkof. Ide­al­ized rep­re­sen­ta­tions of the rul­ing class hav­ing been aggres­sive­ly scrapped along with the rul­ing class itself, the Bol­she­viks wel­comed any style that could shore up their rev­o­lu­tion­ary cause, total abstrac­tion includ­ed. Alas, though many par­ty offi­cials approved of Tatlin’s design, they com­mand­ed noth­ing like the resources to build it: “Rus­sia would go bank­rupt if it tried to acquire the insane amounts of steel and iron need­ed for the tow­er’s skele­tal frame­work.” Per­haps Leon Trot­sky, one of the pro­jec­t’s dis­senters, was right when he called it “imprac­ti­cal and roman­tic” — and per­haps those are the very qual­i­ties that keep Tatlin’s Tow­er an object of fas­ci­na­tion more than a cen­tu­ry lat­er.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Utopi­an, Social­ist Designs of Sovi­et Cities

Every­thing You Need to Know About Mod­ern Russ­ian Art in 25 Min­utes: A Visu­al Intro­duc­tion to Futur­ism, Social­ist Real­ism & More

What Makes Kaz­imir Malevich’s Black Square (1915) Not Just Art, But Impor­tant Art

The Unre­al­ized Projects of Frank Lloyd Wright Get Brought to Life with 3D Dig­i­tal Recon­struc­tions

An Intro­duc­tion to Bru­tal­ism: the Icon­ic Post­war Archi­tec­tur­al Style That Com­bined Utopi­anism and Con­crete

The Futur­ist Archi­tec­tur­al Designs Cre­at­ed by Éti­enne-Louis Boul­lée in the 18th Cen­tu­ry

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 Bayeux Tapestry Explained: Watch an Animated Retelling of the Norman Conquest

Every time the World Cup comes around, or at least since Eng­land first and last won it 60 years ago, there’s talk of whether it’ll be brought “back home.” The idea being, of course, that foot­ball (or soc­cer, as it’s called in a cou­ple of the coun­tries host­ing this year’s match­es) was made in Eng­land. How­ev­er the show­down with Nor­way goes this Sun­day, and indeed how the rest of the World Cup plays out dur­ing the week there­after, some­thing much old­er — and of much less debat­able ori­gins — will be returned to Blighty: the Bayeux Tapes­try, which has been kept in the epony­mous Nor­mandy town since at least the four­teen-sev­en­ties, and most like­ly cen­turies ear­li­er than that.

This siz­able and intri­cate piece of embroi­dered fab­ric depicts the events lead­ing up to the Bat­tle of Hast­ings in 1066, the deci­sive event of the Nor­man Con­quest of Eng­land. Leg­i­ble today as a kind of “medieval com­ic strip,” as the nar­ra­tor of this new ani­mat­ed video from the British Muse­um puts it, the Bayeux Tapes­try also reveals “medieval life in amaz­ing detail,” while at the same time “hint­ing at secrets in its bor­ders.”

For all the schol­ar­ly and pop­u­lar atten­tion paid to it, the work has yet to yield the answers to any­where near all of its mys­ter­ies, nor to lose its fas­ci­na­tion through famil­iar­i­ty. It bears, after all, quite a lot of imagery to get famil­iar with in the first place.

It’s one thing to behold the Bayeux Tapes­try through images, how­ev­er high-res­o­lu­tion, and quite anoth­er to behold the real thing. The Eng­lish have been able to get fair­ly close to the lat­ter expe­ri­ence since the Vic­to­ri­an era with the aid of the full-size repli­ca, made in 1885, now dis­played at the Read­ing Muse­um in Berk­shire and pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture. But this Sep­tem­ber, the orig­i­nal Bayeux Tapes­try will begin its res­i­dence at the British Muse­um, coin­cid­ing with the ren­o­va­tion of the Bayeux Muse­um. (France, for its part, gets a loan of trea­sures from the ship buried at Sut­ton Hoo and the Lewis chess­men.) If you get the oppor­tu­ni­ty to have a look before it’s returned the fol­low­ing year, don’t turn it down; as the World Cup shows us, you can nev­er be sure when the next home­com­ing will hap­pen.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Bayeux Tapes­try Gets Dig­i­tized: View the Medieval Tapes­try in High Res­o­lu­tion, Down to the Indi­vid­ual Thread

Behold a Cre­ative Ani­ma­tion of the Bayeux Tapes­try

The Sto­ry Told on the Famous Bayeux Tapes­try Explained from Start to Fin­ish

The Entire His­to­ry of the British Isles Ani­mat­ed: 42,000 BCE to Today

Con­struct Your Own Bayeux Tapes­try with This Free Online App

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 First Spectacular Film Adaptation of the Odyssey (1911)

Pub­lic and com­mer­cial spaces around the world are now lined with imagery of a ver­te­bra-stud­ded bat­tle hel­met and stat­ues sur­round­ed by flame. It’s all part of the pro­mo­tion­al cam­paign for Christo­pher Nolan’s adap­ta­tion of the Odyssey, which will begin open­ing in the­aters lat­er this month. Much has been said and writ­ten about how the project rep­re­sents the next phase of Nolan’s ever-grander cin­e­mat­ic ambi­tions, but bank­ing on the spec­ta­cle val­ue of Homer has a long his­to­ry in film­mak­ing. When the Ital­ian silent adap­ta­tion L’Odis­sea came out in 1911, for exam­ple, it was uncer­tain even whether audi­ences would tol­er­ate the 44 min­utes it took to depict Odysseus’ ardu­ous jour­ney home.

Though it was released in the fall of 1911 in Italy and the fol­low­ing win­ter in the U.S., L’Odis­sea now looks like a sum­mer block­buster avant la let­tre, or ante lit­ter­am — or then again, giv­en the mate­r­i­al, πρὶν ὀνομασθῆναι, though most of us are still wait­ing to see just how ancient Nolan and his col­lab­o­ra­tors have allowed them­selves to get.

By the stan­dards of their day, the mak­ers of L’Odis­sea appear to have spared no expense on sets, cos­tumes, and even visu­al effects, most notably in its por­tray­al of the cyclops Polyphe­mus. Tech­ni­cal­ly, none of it may mea­sure up to what Nolan and com­pa­ny have in store, but the the­atri­cal ges­tures, shift­ing col­or tints, and occa­sion­al­ly bat­tered tex­tures do their part to con­jure up a real­i­ty of their own.

L’Odis­sea was actu­al­ly the sec­ond major lit­er­ary adap­ta­tion of that year for its direc­tors, the trio of Francesco Bertoli­ni, Adol­fo Padovan, and Giuseppe De Liguoro, all work­ing at the stu­dio Milano Films. Here on Open Cul­ture, we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured their first, L’In­fer­no, which dra­ma­tizes the first and most famous part of Dan­te’s Divine Com­e­dy at a length of 73 min­utes. That run­time qual­i­fied it as the first fea­ture-length film ever pro­duced in Italy, by com­par­i­son to which L’Odis­sea may have actu­al­ly felt like a more famil­iar view­ing expe­ri­ence to con­tem­po­rary view­ers accus­tomed to shorts. Now that human­i­ty has been re-accli­mat­ed to watch­ing things a few min­utes at a time here in the twen­ty-twen­ties, Nolan’s near­ly three-hour Odyssey looks like a bold move indeed. But then, an epic poem demands an epic inter­pre­ta­tion.

Note: If you click “cc” on the YouTube video above, Eng­lish sub­ti­tles will appear.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Hear What Homer’s Odyssey Sound­ed Like When Sung in the Orig­i­nal Ancient Greek

An Inter­ac­tive Map of Odysseus’ 10-Year Jour­ney in Homer’s Odyssey

Hear the First Book of Homer’s Ili­ad Read Aloud in the Orig­i­nal Greek

Watch All 18,225 Lines of the Ili­ad Read by 66 Actors in a Marathon Event For an Audi­ence of 50,000

Watch L’Inferno (1911), Italy’s First Fea­ture Film and Per­haps the Finest Adap­ta­tion of Dante’s Clas­sic

Cinecit­tà Luce and Google to Bring Italy’s Largest Film Archive to YouTube

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 an Edward Hopper Painting Inspired Norman Bates’ Iconic House in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho

Alfred Hitch­cock was not Amer­i­can, as even casu­al view­ers of his tele­vi­sion show could tell right away. He may have exag­ger­at­ed his Eng­lish­ness, but like more than a few high-pro­file out­siders, he also used his cul­tur­al posi­tion to ren­der the Unit­ed States all the more vivid­ly in his work. Grow­ing up, he amassed enough sec­ond-hand knowl­edge of the coun­try in which he would one day live that he already knew his way around New York when first he set foot there. But it was some years after he relo­cat­ed to Hol­ly­wood that his films began to feel Amer­i­can — and, even­tu­al­ly, more Amer­i­can than those made by domes­tic direc­tors, thanks in part to his uncon­ven­tion­al per­spec­tive on local sources of inspi­ra­tion.

Image by Diego Del­so, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Take the archi­tec­ture. Asked by François Truf­faut about Nor­man Bates’ “ghost­ly house” in Psy­cho, he explained that “the mys­te­ri­ous atmos­phere is, to some extent, quite acci­den­tal. For instance, the actu­al locale of the events is in north­ern Cali­fornia, where that type of house is very com­mon.” He was­n’t try­ing to “recon­struct an old-fash­ioned Uni­ver­sal hor­ror pic­ture atmos­phere,” but “sim­ply want­ed to be accu­rate.” Yet the house is report­ed to have been inspired by an east-coast mod­el as well, and one found in art: Edward Hop­per’s paint­ingHouse by the Rail­road(top), from 1925, itself made with ref­er­ence to a real Vic­to­ri­an man­sion that still stands in Haver­straw, New York, between a rail­road and a ceme­tery.

Hitch­cock had already made use of Hop­per, that most cin­e­mat­ic of Amer­i­can painters. Here on Open Cul­ture, we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured the visu­al influ­ence of Hop­per paint­ings from the nine­teen-twen­ties and thir­ties like Automat, Night Win­dows, Hotel Room, and Room in New York on Rear Win­dow. “Both artists explored the lone­li­ness that results from mod­ern­iza­tion,” writes Tim Brinkhof at Art­net. “Hopper’s paint­ings and Hitch­cock­’s films explore the extent to which progress and urban mod­ern­iza­tion have made the world lone­li­er and, as a result, capa­ble of acts of explo­sive, irra­tional vio­lence,” a capa­bil­i­ty per­son­i­fied in the dis­turbed motel-keep­er Nor­man Bates.

“The [Haver­straw] house was built in 1885, near the crest of a hill that ris­es steeply from the west bank of the Hud­son Riv­er,” writes Paul Bochn­er in the Atlantic. “By the turn of the cen­tu­ry it had been aban­doned; neigh­bor­hood chil­dren called it haunt­ed.” It was lat­er pur­chased by the dis­trict attor­ney of Rock­land Coun­ty, whose eldest daugh­ter remem­bered that, “when she was thir­teen, she looked out her bed­room win­dow and saw a man sit­ting across the road, paint­ing.” The man was, of course, Edward Hop­per. She would­n’t have known, sev­en­teen years before Nighthawks, that he was on his way to becom­ing one of the coun­try’s most famous artists. As for what the house would one day become in the hands of Alfred Hitch­cock, then just start­ing his career on the oth­er side of the Atlantic, nobody could have imag­ined.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

16 Free Hitch­cock Movies Online

How Edward Hopper’s Paint­ings Inspired the Creepy Sus­pense of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Win­dow

How Cin­e­ma Inspired Edward Hopper’s Great Paint­ings, and How Edward Hop­per Inspired Great Film­mak­ers

Alfred Hitch­cock Want­ed Frank Lloyd Wright to Design the North by North­west House: An Archi­tect Just Built It for $45 Mil­lion

How Edward Hop­per “Sto­ry­board­ed” His Icon­ic Paint­ing Nighthawks

Sal­vador Dalí Goes to Hol­ly­wood & Cre­ates a Wild Dream Sequence for Alfred Hitch­cock

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 3,000-Year-Old Painter’s Palette from Ancient Egypt, with Traces of the Original Colors Still In It

It’s a good bet that your first box of crayons or water­col­ors was a sim­ple affair of six or so col­ors… just like the palette belong­ing to Amen­emopet, vizier to Pharaoh Amen­hotep III (c.1391 — c.1354 BC), a plea­sure-lov­ing patron of the arts whose rule coin­cid­ed with a peri­od of great pros­per­i­ty.

Amenemopet’s well-used artist’s palette, above, resides in the Egypt­ian wing of New York City’s Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art.

Over 3000 years old and carved from a sin­gle piece of ivory, the palette is marked “beloved of Re,” a roy­al ref­er­ence to the sun god dear to both Amen­hotep III and Akhen­aton, his son and suc­ces­sor, whose wor­ship of Re resem­bled monothe­ism.

As cura­tor Catharine H. Roehrig notes in the Met­ro­pol­i­tan’s pub­li­ca­tion, Life along the Nile: Three Egyp­tians of Ancient Thebes, the palette “con­tains the six basic col­ors of the Egypt­ian palette, plus two extras: red­dish brown, a mix­ture of red ocher and car­bon; and orange, a mix­ture of orpi­ment (yel­low) and red ocher. The painter could also vary his col­ors by apply­ing a thick­er or thin­ner lay­er of paint or by adding white or black to achieve a lighter or dark­er shade.”

(Care­ful when mix­ing that orpi­ment into your red ocher, kids. It’s a form of arsenic.)

Oth­er min­er­als that would have been ground and com­bined with a nat­ur­al bind­ing agent include gyp­sum, car­bon, iron oxides, blue and green azu­rite and mala­chite.

The col­ors them­selves would have had strong sym­bol­ism for Amen­hotep and his peo­ple, and the artist would have made very delib­er­atereg­u­lat­ed, evenchoic­es as to which pig­ment to load onto his palm fiber brush when dec­o­rat­ing tombs, tem­ples, pub­lic build­ings, and pot­tery.

As Jen­ny Hill writes in Ancient Egypt Onlineiwn—col­orcan also be trans­lat­ed as “dis­po­si­tion,” “char­ac­ter,” “com­plex­ion,” or “nature.” She delves into the specifics of each of the six basic col­ors:

Wadj (green) also means “to flour­ish” or “to be healthy.” The hiero­glyph rep­re­sent­ed the papyrus plant as well as the green stone mala­chite (wadj). The col­or green rep­re­sent­ed veg­e­ta­tion, new life and fer­til­i­ty. In an inter­est­ing par­al­lel with mod­ern ter­mi­nol­o­gy, actions which pre­served the fer­til­i­ty of the land or pro­mot­ed life were described as “green.”

Dshr (red) was a pow­er­ful col­or because of its asso­ci­a­tion with blood, in par­tic­u­lar the pro­tec­tive pow­er of the blood of Isis…red could also rep­re­sent anger, chaos and fire and was close­ly asso­ci­at­ed with Set, the unpre­dictable god of storms. Set had red hair, and peo­ple with red hair were thought to be con­nect­ed to him. As a result, the Egyp­tians described a per­son in a fit of rage as hav­ing a “red heart” or as being “red upon” the thing that made them angry. A per­son was described as hav­ing “red eyes” if they were angry or vio­lent. “To red­den” was to die and “mak­ing red” was a euphemism for killing.

Irtyu (blue) was the col­or of the heav­ens and hence rep­re­sent­ed the uni­verse. Many tem­ples, sar­copha­gi and bur­ial vaults have a deep blue roof speck­led with tiny yel­low stars. Blue is also the col­or of the Nile and the primeval waters of chaos (known as Nun).

Khenet (yel­low) rep­re­sent­ed that which was eter­nal and inde­struc­tible, and was close­ly asso­ci­at­ed with gold (nebu or nebw) and the sun. Gold was thought to be the sub­stance which formed the skin of the gods.

Hdj (white) rep­re­sent­ed puri­ty and omnipo­tence. Many sacred ani­mals (hip­po, oxen and cows) were white. White cloth­ing was worn dur­ing reli­gious rit­u­als and to “wear white san­dals” was to be a priest…White was also seen as the oppo­site of red, because of the latter’s asso­ci­a­tion with rage and chaos, and so the two were often paired to rep­re­sent com­plete­ness.

Kem (black) rep­re­sent­ed death and the after­life to the ancient Egyp­tians. Osiris was giv­en the epi­thet “the black one” because he was the king of the nether­world, and both he and Anu­bis (the god of embalm­ing) were por­trayed with black faces. The Egyp­tians also asso­ci­at­ed black with fer­til­i­ty and res­ur­rec­tion because much of their agri­cul­ture was depen­dent on the rich dark silt deposit­ed on the riv­er banks by the Nile dur­ing the inun­da­tion. When used to rep­re­sent res­ur­rec­tion, black and green were inter­change­able.

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!

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2021.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Won­ders of Ancient Egypt: A Free Online Course from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Penn­syl­va­nia

Harvard’s Dig­i­tal Giza Project Lets You Access the Largest Online Archive on the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids (Includ­ing a 3D Giza Tour)

Pyra­mids of Giza: Ancient Egypt­ian Art and Archaeology–a Free Online Course from Har­vard

The Met Dig­i­tal­ly Restores the Col­ors of an Ancient Egypt­ian Tem­ple, Using Pro­jec­tion Map­ping Tech­nol­o­gy

Take a 3D Tour Through Ancient Giza, Includ­ing the Great Pyra­mids, the Sphinx & More

What Ancient Egypt­ian Sound­ed Like & How We Know It

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

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 1 ) |

How Nashville Became Home to a Full-Scale Replica of the Parthenon

Asked to iden­ti­fy “the Athens of the South,” many Amer­i­cans might well point to Athens, Geor­gia, espe­cial­ly if they hap­pen to be fans of REM, the B‑52s, or Of Mon­tre­al. In fact, that title was claimed by Nashville, Ten­nessee as ear­ly as the eigh­teen-fifties, when the city put into action its ambi­tious plans for a pub­lic edu­ca­tion sys­tem. By the end of that cen­tu­ry, Nashville boast­ed not just more than 20 col­leges and uni­ver­si­ties (Van­der­bilt being the best known today), but also a full-scale repli­ca of the Parthenon, the ancient tem­ple to the god­dess Athena. It was built for the state’s Cen­ten­ni­al Exhi­bi­tion in 1897, when no dis­play of local grandeur was too much.

Near­ly 130 years lat­er, the Nashville Parthenon remains a major local attrac­tion along­side the likes of the Grand Ole Opry, the Coun­try Music Hall of Fame, and the Honky Tonk High­way. The struc­ture cur­rent­ly sit­u­at­ed in Cen­ten­ni­al Park (also the home of that mod­ern site of pil­grim­age, the Tay­lor Swift Bench) isn’t the same one at which vis­i­tors mar­veled in 1897.

After a cou­ple of decades of dete­ri­o­ra­tion, writes Art­sy’s Isaac Kaplan, “mas­sive ren­o­va­tions were under­tak­en in 1920, over­seen by an archi­tect named Rus­sell Hart, who com­mit­ted to mak­ing the build­ing both endur­ing and as his­tor­i­cal­ly true to the orig­i­nal Parthenon as pos­si­ble,” an exten­sive rebuild that even entailed mak­ing casts of the orig­i­nal mar­bles.

Unlike the bombed-out ruin in the Athens of Greece, the Nashville Parthenon stands proud­ly intact. But does it pass muster with seri­ous enthu­si­asts of clas­si­cal civ­i­liza­tion? In the video at the top of the post, Gar­rett Ryan of ancient-his­to­ry YouTube chan­nel Told in Stone makes the trip. He notes that, though it does con­tain a gold-plat­ed (or rather, gold-leaf plat­ed) stat­ue of Athena much like the one orig­i­nal­ly sculpt­ed by Phidias, the build­ing is “not an exact repli­ca. It’s made of con­crete, not mar­ble, it has no frieze, the col­ors are all wrong, and the inte­ri­or is very dif­fer­ent from the orig­i­nal. But it gives a sense of the scale of the Parthenon,” and “cap­tures the expe­ri­ence of vis­it­ing a tem­ple of this size.” The park­ing lot right along­side it does some harm to the illu­sion, grant­ed, but it does encour­age the vis­i­tor to reflect upon the nature of civ­i­liza­tion: Amer­i­can civ­i­liza­tion, that is.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The City of Nashville Built a Full-Scale Repli­ca of the Parthenon in 1897, and It’s Still Stand­ing Today

A Tour of Athens’ Acrop­o­lis, Explained with 3D Recon­struc­tions

A 3D Mod­el Reveals What the Parthenon and Its Inte­ri­or Looked Like 2,500 Years Ago

How the Ancient Greeks Built Their Mag­nif­i­cent Tem­ples: The Art of Ancient Engi­neer­ing

A Vir­tu­al Tour of Ancient Athens: Fly Over Clas­si­cal Greek Civ­i­liza­tion in All Its Glo­ry

How the Parthenon Mar­bles End­ed Up In The British Muse­um

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.

Alfred Hitchcock Wanted Frank Lloyd Wright to Design the North by Northwest House: An Architect Just Built It for $45 Million

Vil­lains who live in opu­lent, remote mod­ernist hous­es may have been a cliché since the last cen­tu­ry, but giv­en Hol­ly­wood’s addic­tion to the tried and true, they do still turn up now and again. Unsur­pris­ing­ly, few film­mak­ers have man­aged to use them any­where near as mem­o­rably as Alfred Hitch­cock did. Think back to North by North­west, that show­case of both late-fifties high style and unadul­ter­at­ed Hitch­cock­ery, and any num­ber of images come right to mind: the dead­ly crop duster bear­ing down on Cary Grant, the hang off the edge of Mount Rush­more, the cheeky cut to the train enter­ing the tun­nel. But on the archi­tec­tural­ly inclined, the deep­est impres­sion is made by not a shot but a set: the house — mod­ernist, opu­lent, remote — occu­pied by James Mason’s vil­lain Phillip Van­damm.

“The pio­neer­ing deci­sion to fea­ture a mod­ern house as the villain’s lair in North by North­west arose from both the prac­ti­cal needs of the script and the desire to explore inno­va­tion in archi­tec­tur­al rep­re­sen­ta­tion,” writes Chris­tine Madrid French, author of The Archi­tec­ture of Sus­pense: The Built World in the Films of Alfred Hitch­cock.

The look of the Van­damm House betrays con­sid­er­able inspi­ra­tion from the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, espe­cial­ly his “icon­ic Falling­wa­ter, best known for its aston­ish­ing pro­ject­ed porch­es can­tilevered over a run­ning stream.” As the Hol­ly­wood sto­ry goes, Hitch­cock asked Wright him­self about the pos­si­bil­i­ty of design­ing the house, but when the archi­tect asked for ten per­cent of the film’s entire bud­get, the job went to pro­duc­tion design­er Robert F. Boyle.

Despite the high­ly un-Wright­ian steel beams sup­port­ing the can­tilevered liv­ing room (insert­ed because Grant need­ed a way to climb in), movie­go­ers left the the­ater assum­ing that they’d wit­nessed a show­down in one of his hous­es. In fact, like so many of Hitch­cock­’s famous built envi­ron­ments, the struc­ture did­n’t actu­al­ly exist: Boyle and his col­lab­o­ra­tors con­struct­ed pieces on sets, com­plet­ing the rest with mat­te paint­ings. Yet their work did, in a sense, bring the Van­damm House into the world. A North by North­west fan since child­hood, archi­tect John Boc­car­do just this year achieved his $45 mil­lion dream of build­ing it for real. Apart from faith­ful­ly repli­cat­ing onscreen details, he also put in an eigh­teen-seat home the­ater, pos­si­bly on the safe assump­tion that the buy­er will be a fel­low cinephile — who, giv­en that the house over­looks Park City, Utah rather than sits atop Mount Rush­more, will sure­ly rue the day Sun­dance decid­ed to move to Boul­der. See pho­tos here.

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:

16 Free Hitch­cock Movies Online

Alfred Hitch­cock Explains the Plot Device He Called the ‘MacGuf­fin’

Take a Tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Ennis House, the Man­sion That Has Appeared in Blade Run­ner, Twin Peaks & Count­less Hol­ly­wood Films

1,300 Pho­tos of Famous Mod­ern Amer­i­can Homes Now Online, Cour­tesy of USC

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

Sal­vador Dalí Cre­ates a Dream Sequence for Spell­bound, Hitchcock’s Psy­cho­an­a­lyt­ic Thriller

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.

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast