An Animated Introduction to “the World’s Most Mysterious Book,” the 15th-Century Voynich Manuscript

It has 240 pages filled with writ­ing and illus­tra­tion. Car­bon dat­ing places it around the year 1420. Schol­ars have spent count­less thou­sands of hours scru­ti­niz­ing it. But the so-called Voyn­ich Man­u­script has one qual­i­ty more notable than any oth­er: nobody under­stands a word of it. Last month, Josh Jones wrote about this sin­gu­lar­ly strange tex­tu­al arti­fact here at Open Cul­ture, includ­ing the dig­i­tized ver­sion at the Inter­net Archive that you can flip through and read your­self — or rather “read,” since the tex­t’s lan­guage, if it be a lan­guage at all, remains uniden­ti­fied. But before you do that, you might want to watch TED-Ed’s brief intro­duc­tion to the Voyn­ich Man­u­script above.

The video’s nar­ra­tor describes pages of “real and imag­i­nary plants, float­ing cas­tles, bathing women, astrol­o­gy dia­grams, zodi­ac rings, and suns and moons with faces accom­pa­ny the text,” read­ing from a script by Stephen Bax, Voyn­ich Man­u­script researcher and Pro­fes­sor of Mod­ern Lan­guages and Lin­guis­tics at the Open Uni­ver­si­ty.

“Cryp­tol­o­gists say the writ­ing has all the char­ac­ter­is­tics of a real lan­guage — just one that no one’s ever seen before.” High­ly dec­o­rat­ed through­out with “scroll-like embell­ish­ments,” the man­u­script fea­tures the work of what looks like no few­er than three hands: two who did the writ­ing, and one who did the paint­ing.

Intrigued yet? Or per­haps you already feel an inkling of a new the­o­ry to explain this bizarre, seem­ing­ly ency­clo­pe­dia-like vol­ume’s prove­nance to add to the many that have come before: some believe the man­u­scrip­t’s author or authors wrote it in code, some that “the doc­u­ment is a hoax, writ­ten in gib­ber­ish to make mon­ey off a gullible buy­er” by a “medieval con man” or even Voyn­ich him­self, and some that it shows an attempt “to cre­ate an alpha­bet for a lan­guage that was spo­ken, but not yet writ­ten.” Maybe the thir­teenth-cen­tu­ry philoso­pher Roger Bacon wrote it. Or maybe the Eliz­a­bethan mys­tic John Dee. Or maybe Ital­ian witch­es, or space aliens. At just a glance, the Voyn­ich Man­u­script pos­es ques­tions that could take an eter­ni­ty to answer — as any great work of lit­er­a­ture should.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Behold the Mys­te­ri­ous Voyn­ich Man­u­script: The 15th-Cen­tu­ry Text That Lin­guists & Code-Break­ers Can’t Under­stand

1,000-Year-Old Illus­trat­ed Guide to the Med­i­c­i­nal Use of Plants Now Dig­i­tized & Put Online

Won­der­ful­ly Weird & Inge­nious Medieval Books

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

Kintsugi: The Centuries-Old Japanese Craft of Repairing Pottery with Gold & Finding Beauty in Broken Things

We all grow up believ­ing we should empha­size the inher­ent pos­i­tives about our­selves. But what if we also empha­sized the neg­a­tives, the parts we’ve had to work to fix or improve? If we did it just right, would the neg­a­tives still look so neg­a­tive after all? These kinds of ques­tions come to mind when one pon­ders the tra­di­tion­al Japan­ese craft of kintsu­gi, a means of repair­ing bro­ken pot­tery that aims not for per­fec­tion, a return to “as good as new,” but for a kind of post-break­age rein­ven­tion that dares not to hide the cracks.

“Trans­lat­ed to ‘gold­en join­ery,’ Kintsu­gi (or Kintsukuroi, which means ‘gold­en repair’) is the cen­turies-old Japan­ese art of fix­ing bro­ken pot­tery with a spe­cial lac­quer dust­ed with pow­dered gold, sil­ver, or plat­inum” says My Mod­ern Met.

“Beau­ti­ful seams of gold glint in the cracks of ceram­ic ware, giv­ing a unique appear­ance to the piece. This repair method cel­e­brates each arti­fac­t’s unique his­to­ry by empha­siz­ing its frac­tures and breaks instead of hid­ing or dis­guis­ing them. Kintsu­gi often makes the repaired piece even more beau­ti­ful than the orig­i­nal, revi­tal­iz­ing it with new life.”

Kintsu­gi orig­i­nates, so one the­o­ry has it, in the late 15th cen­tu­ry under the cul­tur­al­ly inclined shogun Ashik­a­ga Yoshi­masa, dur­ing whose reign the sen­si­bil­i­ties of tra­di­tion­al Japan­ese art as we known them emerged. When Ashik­a­ga sent one of his dam­aged Chi­nese tea bowls back to his moth­er­land for repairs, it came back reassem­bled with ungain­ly met­al sta­ples. This prompt­ed his crafts­men to find a bet­ter way: why not use that gild­ed lac­quer to empha­size the cracks instead of hid­ing them? The tech­nique was said to have won the admi­ra­tion of famed (and not eas­i­ly impressed) tea mas­ter Sen no Rikyū, major pro­po­nent of the imper­fec­tion-appre­ci­at­ing aes­thet­ic wabi sabi.

You can hear and see these sto­ries of kintsug­i’s ori­gins in the videos from Nerd­writer and Alain de Bot­ton’s School of Life at the top of the post. The clip just above offers a clos­er look at the painstak­ing tech­niques of mod­ern kintsu­gi, which not only sur­vives but thrives today, hav­ing expand­ed to include oth­er mate­ri­als, repair­ing glass­ware as well as ceram­ics, for exam­ple, or fill­ing the cracks with sil­ver instead of gold. And what could under­score the cur­rent glob­al rel­e­vance of kintsu­gi more than the fact that the craft has inspired not one but two TEDTalks, the first by Audrey Har­ris in Kyoto in 2015 and the sec­ond by Mad­die Kel­ly in Ade­laide last year. We all, it seems, want to repair our cracks; kintsu­gi shows the way to do it not just hon­est­ly but art­ful­ly.

h/t the nugget

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Wabi-Sabi: A Short Film on the Beau­ty of Tra­di­tion­al Japan

20 Mes­mer­iz­ing Videos of Japan­ese Arti­sans Cre­at­ing Tra­di­tion­al Hand­i­crafts

The Mak­ing of Japan­ese Hand­made Paper: A Short Film Doc­u­ments an 800-Year-Old Tra­di­tion

Watch a Japan­ese Crafts­man Lov­ing­ly Bring a Tat­tered Old Book Back to Near Mint Con­di­tion

The Art of Col­lo­type: See a Near Extinct Print­ing Tech­nique, as Lov­ing­ly Prac­ticed by a Japan­ese Mas­ter Crafts­man

Watch Japan­ese Wood­work­ing Mas­ters Cre­ate Ele­gant & Elab­o­rate Geo­met­ric Pat­terns with Wood

Japan­ese Crafts­man Spends His Life Try­ing to Recre­ate a Thou­sand-Year-Old Sword

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

People Walked a Little Differently During Medieval Times: A Quick Primer

Roland Warzecha runs a Youtube chan­nel where he delves into the world of medieval weapons and com­bat. If you want to learn some­thing about Viking shields and swords, medieval spears and com­bat tech­niques, spend some time there.

Above, Roland departs from his reg­u­lar­ly sched­uled pro­gram­ming and explores anoth­er facet of medieval life. Walk­ing. That’s right, walk­ing. It turns out that, as Boing Boing sum­ma­rizes it, “before struc­tured shoes became preva­lent in the 16th cen­tu­ry … peo­ple walked with a dif­fer­ent gait, push­ing onto the balls of our feet instead of rock­ing for­ward on our heels.” And that’s your les­son on medieval body mechan­ics for today…

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:

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

What’s It Like to Fight in 15th Cen­tu­ry Armor?: A Sur­pris­ing Demon­stra­tion

Won­der­ful­ly Weird & Inge­nious Medieval Books

See The Guidon­ian Hand, the Medieval Sys­tem for Read­ing Music, Get Brought Back to Life

Wear­able Books: In Medieval Times, They Took Old Man­u­scripts & Turned Them into Clothes

How Walk­ing Fos­ters Cre­ativ­i­ty: Stan­ford Researchers Con­firm What Philoso­phers and Writ­ers Have Always Known

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How Marilyn Monroe Helped Break Ella Fitzgerald Into the Big Time (1955)

Think of movie stars, and you’ll almost cer­tain­ly think of Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe; think of jazz singers, and you’ll almost cer­tain­ly think of Ella Fitzger­ald. Their skills as per­form­ers, their inher­ent icon­ic qual­i­ties, the time of the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry in which they rose to fame, and oth­er fac­tors besides, have ensured that these two women still define the images of their respec­tive crafts. But before their ascen­sion to cul­tur­al immor­tal­i­ty, the Ange­leno Mon­roe and the New York­er Fitzger­ald’s paths crossed down here on Earth in 1955, and, when they did, the movie star played an inte­gral role in break­ing the jazz singer into the big time.

If you want­ed to play to an influ­en­tial crowd in Hol­ly­wood back in the 1950s, you had to play the Mocam­bo, the Sun­set Strip night­club fre­quent­ed by the likes of Clark Gable, Humphrey Bog­a­rt, Lana Turn­er, Bob Hope, Sophia Loren, and Howard Hugh­es. But at the time, a singer of the reput­ed­ly scan­dalous new music known as jazz did­n’t just waltz onto the stage of such a respectable venue, espe­cial­ly giv­en the racial atti­tudes of the time. But as luck would have it, Fitzger­ald found an advo­cate in Mon­roe, who, “tired of being cast as a help­less sex sym­bol, took a break from Los Ange­les and head­ed to New York to find her­self,” writes the Inde­pen­dent’s Ciar Byrne.

There Mon­roe “immersed her­self in jazz,” rec­og­niz­ing in Fitzger­ald “the cre­ative genius she her­self longed to pos­sess.” Togeth­er with Fitzger­ald’s man­ag­er, jazz impre­sario and Verve Records founder Nor­man Granz, Mon­roe pres­sured the glam­orous Hol­ly­wood club to book Ella. “I owe Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe a real debt,” Fitzger­ald said lat­er, in 1972. “She per­son­al­ly called the own­er of the Mocam­bo, and told him she want­ed me booked imme­di­ate­ly, and if he would do it, she would take a front table every night.” He agreed, and true to her word, “Mar­i­lyn was there, front table, every night. The press went over­board. After that, I nev­er had to play a small jazz club again.”

Though Mon­roe’s efforts did­n’t make Fitzger­ald the first black per­former to take the Mocam­bo’s stage — Herb Jef­fries, Eartha Kitt, and Joyce Bryant had played there in 1952 and 1953 — she did use it as a plat­form to ascend to unusu­al­ly great career heights, com­pa­ra­ble to the way Frank Sina­tra launched his solo career there. The sto­ry has remained com­pelling enough for sev­er­al retellings, includ­ing Bon­nie Greer’s musi­cal Mar­i­lyn and Ella and, more recent­ly, through the hilar­i­ous unre­li­a­bil­i­ty of an episode of Drunk His­to­ry. As real his­to­ry would have it, Fitzger­ald would go on to enjoy a much longer and more var­ied career than the trag­ic Mon­roe, but she did her own part to repay the favor by adding nuance to Mon­roe’s super­fi­cial pub­lic image: “She was an unusu­al woman — a lit­tle ahead of her times. And she did­n’t know it.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ella Fitzger­ald Sings ‘Sum­mer­time’ by George Gersh­win, Berlin 1968

Mar­i­lyn Monroe’s Go-Get­ter List of New Year’s Res­o­lu­tions (1955)

The 430 Books in Mar­i­lyn Monroe’s Library: How Many Have You Read?

Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe Recounts Her Har­row­ing Expe­ri­ence in a Psy­chi­atric Ward in a 1961 Let­ter

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

Before the Bookmobile: When Librarians Rode on Horseback to Deliver Books to Rural Americans During the Great Depression

An odd phe­nom­e­non has been at work in the past few years. Print book sales slope upward while eBook sales creep down. The trend man­i­fests the oppo­site of what most people—or most peo­ple who write about these things—expected to hap­pen, quite rea­son­ably in many respects. Per­haps through sheer his­tor­i­cal momen­tum, print retains its aura of author­i­ty.

But every­one knows that buy­ing isn’t read­ing, which may indeed be in decline giv­en the pri­ma­cy of images, audio, and video, of YouTube explain­ers and doc­u­men­taries such as the one above, which tells the tale of the “Pack Horse Librar­i­ans.”

These for­got­ten heroes, like the famed Pony Express, braved wind, rain, and rough ter­rain to deliv­er books to iso­lat­ed set­tlers who oth­er­wise may have had noth­ing to read.

But this is not a tale of cow­boys and fron­tiers­men. The Pack Horse Librar­i­ans appeared in an Indus­tri­al Age, and what’s more they were most­ly women. Called “book ladies” and “pack­sad­dle librar­i­ans,” the librar­i­ans were dep­u­tized dur­ing the New Deal, when FDR sought to end the Great Depres­sion by cre­at­ing hun­dreds of jobs addressed to the country’s real social, mate­r­i­al, and cul­tur­al needs. In this case, the Pack Horse Librar­i­ans respond­ed to what many of us might con­sid­er a cri­sis, if not a crime.

“About 63% of the res­i­dents of Ken­tucky were with­out access to pub­lic libraries,” and some­where around 30% of rur­al Ken­tuck­ians were illit­er­ate. Those rur­al Ken­tuck­ians saw edu­ca­tion as a way out of pover­ty, and the Works Progress Admin­is­tra­tion agreed, over­see­ing the book deliv­ery project between 1935 and 1943. “Book women” made around $28 a month (a lit­tle over $500 in 2017) deliv­er­ing books to homes and school­hous­es. By 1936, writes the site Appalachi­an His­to­ry, “hand­made and donat­ed mate­ri­als could not sus­tain the cir­cu­la­tion needs of the pack horse patrons.”

Sur­veys of read­ers found that pack horse patrons could not get enough of books about trav­el, adven­ture and reli­gion, and detec­tive and romance mag­a­zines. Children’s pic­ture books were also immense­ly pop­u­lar, not only with young res­i­dents but also their illit­er­ate par­ents. Per head­quar­ters, approx­i­mate­ly 800 books had to be shared among five to ten thou­sand patrons.

To com­pen­sate for scarci­ty, a Uni­ver­si­ty of Ken­tucky pre­sen­ta­tion notes, librar­i­ans them­selves cre­at­ed books of “moun­tain recipes and scrap books of cur­rent events.” But the ser­vice quick­ly grew to deliv­er­ing more than 3,000 donat­ed books per month, after a dri­ve in which every PTA mem­ber in the state gave to the cause.

Eleanor Roo­sevelt (pho­tographed above vis­it­ing a Pack­horse Library in West Lib­er­ty, KY) was a cham­pi­on of the ser­vice, which founder Eliz­a­beth Fuller­ton mod­eled after a sim­i­lar ven­ture in 1913, itself a pro­fes­sion­al­iza­tion of work done by the Ken­tucky Fed­er­a­tion of Women’s Clubs in the late 19th cen­tu­ry.

We can see that the his­to­ry of women librar­i­ans on horse­back goes back quite a ways. But it is a his­to­ry now for­got­ten, despite the efforts of recent books like Down Cut Shin Creek: The Pack Horse Librar­i­ans of Ken­tucky. A recent trend involves sug­gest­ing his­tor­i­cal Amer­i­can fig­ures who might replace all those mon­u­ments to the Con­fed­er­a­cy. We might well add Pack Horse Librar­i­ans to the dis­tin­guished list of can­di­dates.

The ser­vice lost its fund­ing in 1943, “leav­ing some com­mu­ni­ties with­out access to books for decades,” Appalachi­an His­to­ry writes, “until book­mo­biles were intro­duced to the area in the late 1950s.” These ser­vices seem quaint in an era when wide­spread deliv­ery by drone seems immi­nent. We seem­ing­ly live in the most infor­ma­tion-rich, instant access soci­ety in his­to­ry. Yet a sig­nif­i­cant num­ber of peo­ple in the U.S. and around the world have lit­tle to no access to the inter­net. And a sim­i­lar degree of illiteracy—at least of basic infor­ma­tion and crit­i­cal reasoning—may war­rant a sim­i­lar­ly direct inter­ven­tion.

via The Smith­son­ian

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Libraries Shaped Like Doc­tor Who’s Time-Trav­el­ing TARDIS Pop Up in Detroit, Saska­toon, Macon & Oth­er Cities

Strik­ing Poster Col­lec­tion from the Great Depres­sion Shows That the US Gov­ern­ment Once Sup­port­ed the Arts in Amer­i­ca

The Future of Con­tent Deliv­ery

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

1,000+ Historic Japanese Illustrated Books Digitized & Put Online by the Smithsonian: From the Edo & Meji Eras (1600–1912)

Sure­ly we’ve all won­dered what we might do as promi­nent nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry indus­tri­al­ists, and more than a few of us (espe­cial­ly here in the Open Cul­ture crowd) would no doubt invest our for­tunes in the art of the world. Rail­car man­u­fac­tur­ing mag­nate Charles Lang Freer did just that, as we can see today in the Freer Gallery of Art in Wash­ing­ton, D.C. Togeth­er with the Arthur M. Sack­ler Gallery (Sack­ler hav­ing made it as “the father of mod­ern phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal adver­tis­ing”), it con­sti­tutes the Smith­son­ian Insti­tu­tion’s nation­al muse­um of Asian art, gath­er­ing every­thing from ancient Egypt­ian stone sculp­ture to Chi­nese paint­ings to Kore­an pot­tery to Japan­ese books.

We like to high­light Japan­ese book cul­ture here every so often (see the relat­ed con­tent below) not just because of its strik­ing aes­thet­ics and con­sum­mate crafts­man­ship but because of its deep his­to­ry. You can now expe­ri­ence a con­sid­er­able swath of that his­to­ry free online at the Freer|Sacker Library’s web site, which just this past sum­mer fin­ished dig­i­tiz­ing over one thou­sand books — now more than 1,100, which breaks down to 41,500 sep­a­rate images — pub­lished dur­ing Japan’s Edo and Mei­ji peri­ods, a span of time reach­ing from 1600 to 1912. “Often filled with beau­ti­ful mul­ti-col­or illus­tra­tions,” writes Reiko Yoshimu­ra at the Smith­son­ian Libraries’ blog, “many titles are by promi­nent Japan­ese tra­di­tion­al and ukiyo‑e (‘float­ing world’) painters such as Oga­ta Kōrin (1658–1716), Andō Hiroshige (1797–1858) and Kat­sushi­ka Hoku­sai (1760–1849).”

Yoshimu­ra directs read­ers to such vol­umes as Hoku­sai’s One Hun­dred Views of Mt. Fuji, Uta­gawa Toyoku­ni’s Thir­ty-Six Pop­u­lar Actors, and artist, crafts­man, and design­er Kōet­su’s col­lec­tion of one hun­dred libret­tos for noh the­ater per­for­mances. Even those who can’t read clas­si­cal Japan­ese will admire an aes­thete like Kōet­su’s way with what Yoshimu­ra calls his “cali­graph­ic ‘font,’ ” all “skill­ful­ly print­ed on lux­u­ri­ous mica embell­ished papers using wood­en mov­able-type.”

While the online col­lec­tion’s scans come in a more than high enough res­o­lu­tion for gen­er­al appre­ci­a­tion, to get the full effect of book­mak­ing tech­niques like mica embell­ish­ment — which only sparkles when seen in real life — you’d have to vis­it the phys­i­cal col­lec­tion. Some things, it seems, can’t yet be dig­i­tized.

Enter the col­lec­tion of Japan­ese Illus­trat­ed Books here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch a Japan­ese Crafts­man Lov­ing­ly Bring a Tat­tered Old Book Back to Near Mint Con­di­tion

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

Japan­ese Kabu­ki Actors Cap­tured in 18th-Cen­tu­ry Wood­block Prints by the Mys­te­ri­ous & Mas­ter­ful Artist Sharaku

Splen­did Hand-Scroll Illus­tra­tions of The Tale of Gen­jii, The First Nov­el Ever Writ­ten (Cir­ca 1120)

Behold the Mas­ter­piece by Japan’s Last Great Wood­block Artist: View Online Tsukio­ka Yoshitoshi’s One Hun­dred Aspects of the Moon (1885)

A Won­der­ful­ly Illus­trat­ed 1925 Japan­ese Edi­tion of Aesop’s Fables by Leg­endary Children’s Book Illus­tra­tor Takeo Takei

“Tsun­doku,” the Japan­ese Word for the New Books That Pile Up on Our Shelves, Should Enter the Eng­lish Lan­guage

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

How Did the Egyptians Make Mummies? An Animated Introduction to the Ancient Art of Mummification

Not every child looks for­ward to a trip to the muse­um, but how many have failed to thrill at the sight of an ancient Egypt­ian mum­my? How many adults, for that mat­ter, can resist the fas­ci­na­tion of this well over 5000-year-old process of pre­serv­ing dead bod­ies in a state if not per­fect­ly life­like then at least eeri­ly intact? If you’ve ever won­dered exact­ly how mum­mi­fi­ca­tion worked — or if you’ve sim­ply for­got­ten the descrip­tions accom­pa­ny­ing the dis­plays you saw on those muse­um trips — this short video from the Get­ty Muse­um’s Youtube chan­nel pro­vides an insight into how the ancient Egyp­tians did it.

The video uses a real mum­my as a case study, the pre­served body of a twen­ty-year-old man named Her­ak­lei­des (as we know because his mum­mi­fiers, though them­selves uniden­ti­fied, wrote it on his feet), who died in the first cen­tu­ry A.D. He had most of his inter­nal organs removed — even his heart, which com­mon prac­tice usu­al­ly dic­tat­ed leav­ing in, but for some rea­son not his lungs  — and spent forty days buried in salt that drew every last bit of mois­ture out of him.

He then received rub­bings of per­fumed oils, fol­lowed by a poured-on lay­er of resin to which strips of linen (the mum­my’s char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly copi­ous “ban­dages” of pop­u­lar cul­ture) could adhere. Wrapped onto a board, equipped with a “mys­te­ri­ous pouch” as well as a mum­mi­fied ibis, and cov­ered with an unusu­al red shroud embla­zoned with sym­bols and a por­trait of him­self, Her­ak­lei­des was ready for his jour­ney into the after­life.

“Such elab­o­rate bur­ial prac­tices might sug­gest that the Egyp­tians were pre­oc­cu­pied with thoughts of death,” says the Smith­so­ni­an’s page on Egypt­ian mum­mies. “On the con­trary, they began ear­ly to make plans for their death because of their great love of life. They could think of no life bet­ter than the present, and they want­ed to be sure it would con­tin­ue after death.” The ancient Egyp­tians believed “that the mum­mi­fied body was the home for this soul or spir­it. If the body was destroyed, the spir­it might be lost.”

If you find your­self shar­ing these beliefs, do have a look at Nation­al Geo­graph­ic’s guide on how to make a mum­my in 70 days or less. And just as you’d need to arrange the right ingre­di­ents to pre­pare a sat­is­fy­ing meal, some­thing else the Egyp­tians enjoyed, don’t attempt any mum­mi­fi­ca­tion at home with­out mak­ing sure you’re ful­ly stocked with resin, oint­ments, lichen, straw­dust, beeswax, palm wine, incense, and myrrh. And it goes with­out say­ing that how­ev­er many feet of wrap­pings you’ve got, it could­n’t hurt to have more.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Open­ing of King Tut’s Tomb, Shown in Stun­ning Col­orized Pho­tos (1923–5)

How the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids Were Built: A New The­o­ry in 3D Ani­ma­tion

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

Try the Old­est Known Recipe For Tooth­paste: From Ancient Egypt, Cir­ca the 4th Cen­tu­ry BC

The Turin Erot­ic Papyrus: The Old­est Known Depic­tion of Human Sex­u­al­i­ty (Cir­ca 1150 B.C.E.)

A Drone’s Eye View of the Ancient Pyra­mids of Egypt, Sudan & Mex­i­co

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

Photo Archive Lets You Download 4,300 High-Res Photographs of the Historic Normandy Invasion

Taxis to Hell – and Back – Into the Jaws of Death, by Robert F. Sar­gent, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

In the mid-20th cen­tu­ry, the­o­rists like Roland Barthes and Pierre Bour­dieu explod­ed naive notions of pho­tog­ra­phy as “a per­fect­ly real­is­tic and objec­tive record­ing of the vis­i­ble world… a ‘nat­ur­al lan­guage,’” as Bour­dieu wrote in Pho­tog­ra­phy: A Mid­dle­brow Art. Bour­dieu him­self wield­ed a cam­era dur­ing his ethno­graph­ic work in Alge­ria, tak­ing dozens of con­ven­tion­al and uncon­ven­tion­al pho­tographs of the nation’s strug­gle for inde­pen­dence from France in the 50s. Yet he urged us to see pho­tog­ra­phy as for­mal­ly medi­at­ing social real­i­ty rather than trans­par­ent­ly rep­re­sent­ing the truth.

We have been trained to inter­pret the per­spec­tives most pho­tographs adopt as objec­tive views, when in fact they are “per­fect­ly in keep­ing with the rep­re­sen­ta­tion of the world which has dom­i­nat­ed Europe since the Quat­tro­cen­to.” Pho­tog­ra­phy, in oth­er words, tends to give us art imi­tat­ing Renais­sance art. It can be dif­fi­cult to bear this in mind when we look at indi­vid­ual photographs—what Barthes calls “the This.”

Whether they doc­u­ment our own fam­i­ly his­to­ries or such momen­tous events as the Nor­mandy Inva­sion that began on D‑Day, June 6th, 1944, pho­tographs elic­it pow­er­ful emo­tion­al reac­tions that defy aes­thet­ic cat­e­gories.

At the Flickr account Pho­to­sNor­mandie, you can browse and search over 4,300 high res­o­lu­tion pho­tographs from the piv­otal Nor­mandy cam­paign, “From icon­ic images like Into the Jaws of Death by Robert F. Sar­gent,” My Mod­ern Met writes, “to troops inter­act­ing with locals as they lib­er­ate areas of Nor­mandy.” The pho­tos are deeply affect­ing, often awe-inspir­ing. When we look with a crit­i­cal eye, we’ll find our­selves ask­ing cer­tain ques­tions about them.

The skewed per­spec­tive and omi­nous sky in Sargent’s “Into the Jaws of Death,” for exam­ple, at the top of the post, might make us think of the Sturm und Drang of many a dra­mat­ic ship­wreck paint­ing from the Roman­tic peri­od. Was Sar­gent aware of the sim­i­lar­i­ty when he looked through the lens? Did he posi­tion him­self to height­en the effect? In pho­tos like that fur­ther up, of a French home dis­play­ing a pro‑U.S. sign on July 11th, 1944, we might won­der whether the res­i­dents made the sign or whether it was giv­en to them, per­haps for this very pho­to op. As always, we’re jus­ti­fied in ask­ing about the role of the pho­tog­ra­ph­er in stag­ing or fram­ing a par­tic­u­lar scene.

For exam­ple, the pho­to of a Ger­man sol­dier sur­ren­der­ing to Amer­i­can G.I.s, above, looks staged. But what exact­ly these sol­diers are doing remains a mys­tery. How much do these exter­nal details mat­ter? Pho­tog­ra­phy is unique among oth­er visu­al arts in that “the Pho­to­graph,” Barthes writes, “repro­duces to infin­i­ty” what has “occurred only once.” It is the meet­ing of infin­i­ty with “only once” that engages us in more exis­ten­tial explo­rations.  All of these sol­diers and civil­ians, shar­ing their joy and anguish, most of them now passed into his­to­ry. Who were these peo­ple? What did these moments mean to them? What do they mean to us 70 years lat­er?

The bombed-out cathe­drals and defeat­ed tanks make us pon­der the fragili­ty of our own built envi­ron­ment, though the destruc­tive forces threat­en­ing to undo the mod­ern world now seem as like­ly to be nat­ur­al as man-made—or rather some new, fright­en­ing com­bi­na­tion of the two. In the faces of the wound­ed and the dis­placed, we see spe­cif­ic man­i­fes­ta­tions of the same trag­ic inva­sions and migra­tions that reach back to Thucy­dides and for­ward to the present moment in world his­to­ry, in which some 60 mil­lion peo­ple dis­placed by war and hard­ship seek sanc­tu­ary.

The images draw us away into gen­er­al obser­va­tions as they draw us back to the unre­peat­able moment. This project began on the 60th anniver­sary of D‑Day “as a way,” My Mod­ern Met explains, “to crowd­source descrip­tions of images on the now defunct Archives Nor­mandie, 1939–1945. Thus, users are encour­aged to com­ment on pho­tos if they are able to improve descrip­tions, loca­tions, and iden­ti­fi­ca­tions.” His­to­ry may rhyme with the present—as one famous quote attrib­uted to Mark Twain has it—but it nev­er exact­ly repeats. The pho­to­graph, Barthes wrote, “mechan­i­cal­ly repeats what could nev­er be repeat­ed exis­ten­tial­ly.” Moments for­ev­er lost to time, trans­mut­ed into time­less­ness by the cam­er­a’s eye. Enter the Pho­to­sNor­mandie gallery here.

via My Mod­ern Met

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ansel Adams, Dorothea Lange, Clem Albers & Fran­cis Stewart’s Cen­sored Pho­tographs of a WWII Japan­ese Intern­ment Camp

The Fin­land Wartime Pho­to Archive: 160,000 Images From World War II Now Online

31 Rolls of Film Tak­en by a World War II Sol­dier Get Dis­cov­ered & Devel­oped Before Your Eyes

200,000 Pho­tos from the George East­man Muse­um, the World’s Old­est Pho­tog­ra­phy Col­lec­tion, Now Avail­able Online

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

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