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

When we see sto­ries pop up involv­ing sci­en­tif­ic find­ings in glac­i­er ice, we might brace for unpleas­ant envi­ron­men­tal news about the future. But a paper pub­lished just recent­ly in Pro­ceed­ings of the Nation­al Acad­e­my of Sci­ences instead reveals fas­ci­nat­ing find­ings about the dis­tant past—the his­to­ry of ancient Rome between 1100 B.C.E. to 800 C.E. His­to­ri­ans know this 1,900-year peri­od through archae­o­log­i­cal and lit­er­ary evi­dence. Now cli­mate sci­en­tists have pro­vid­ed a trea­sury of new data to help sub­stan­ti­ate or revise schol­ar­ly under­stand­ings of Rome’s eco­nom­ic ris­es and falls, by mea­sur­ing the strat­i­fi­ca­tions of lead pol­lu­tion in a rough­ly 400-meter ice core from Green­land.

Why lead? “It’s a proxy for coin pro­duc­tion,” says Seth Bernard, pro­fes­sor of ancient his­to­ry at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Toron­to. Roman cur­ren­cy, the denar­ius, was made from sil­ver, mined pri­mar­i­ly on the Iber­ian Penin­su­la. “But these mines didn’t exca­vate pure sil­ver,” notes Robin­son Mey­er at The Atlantic. “Instead, they unearthed an ore of sil­ver, lead, and cop­per that had to be smelt­ed into sil­ver. This process filled the air with lead pol­lu­tion,” which even­tu­al­ly made its way on air cur­rents to Green­land, where “storms deposit­ed lead-taint­ed snow or sleet over the Arc­tic island.” New lay­ers formed upon the old, each one pre­served for pos­ter­i­ty.

In the mid-1990s, sci­en­tists began drilling Greenland’s ice sheet in the North Green­land Ice core Project (NGRIP). At the time, a team attempt­ed a sim­i­lar analy­sis on the lead lev­els and their cor­re­spon­dence to ancient coinage, “which used a sim­i­lar but rudi­men­ta­ry tech­nique,” Mey­er writes. But this study only drew from 18 data points. By con­trast, the new research “made 25,000 dif­fer­ent mea­sure­ments of the ice core.” Improved tech­nol­o­gy has refined the mea­sure­ment process, allow­ing researchers to detect “the pres­ence of 35 dif­fer­ent ele­ments and chem­i­cals at once,” and to tie their obser­va­tions to spe­cif­ic years, or fair­ly close to it, any­way. The chart above shows the fluc­tu­a­tions in lead emis­sions over the almost 2000-year span.

One of the study’s authors, Joseph McConnell, esti­mates the mar­gin of error as with­in one or two years. “That’s pret­ty good,” he says, “a lot bet­ter than what archae­ol­o­gists are used to, I can tell you that.” This allows the team of cli­mate sci­en­tists, archae­ol­o­gists, and his­to­ri­ans to match their obser­va­tions about lead lev­els to known his­tor­i­cal events. As The New York Times reports, “lead emis­sions rose in peri­ods of peace and pros­per­i­ty, such as the Pax Romana, which ran from 27 BC to 180 A.D. and dropped dur­ing the civ­il wars that pre­ced­ed the Pax and the rise of the emper­or Augus­tus. There were also dra­mat­ic drops that coin­cid­ed with the Anto­nine plague of 165–180 A.D., thought to have been small pox, and the Cypri­an plague, cause uncer­tain, of 250–270 A.D.”

The data, notes The Econ­o­mist, “pro­vide a new win­dow onto the work­ings of the ancient econ­o­my…. Not all of the lead trapped in the glac­i­er comes from sil­ver mind­ing, but much of it does,” and sci­en­tists can make informed guess­es about just how much. Many unan­swered ques­tions remain. “What we’d love to have is a doc­u­ment that says Rome had a state mon­e­tary pol­i­cy,” says Bernard. The empire’s spe­cif­ic eco­nom­ic poli­cies are large­ly a mys­tery, but the ice core sam­ples pro­vide a wealth of new evi­dence for the increase and decrease in cur­ren­cy pro­duc­tion, and ever-more refined tech­nolo­gies will allow for even more data to emerge from the pol­lu­tants trapped in glacial ice in the near future.

via The Atlantic

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

How Did the Romans Make Con­crete That Lasts Longer Than Mod­ern Con­crete? The Mys­tery Final­ly Solved

The Rise & Fall of the Romans: Every Year Shown in a Time­lapse Map Ani­ma­tion (753 BC ‑1479 AD)

A Huge Scale Mod­el of Ancient Rome at Its Archi­tec­tur­al Peak, Orig­i­nal­ly Com­mis­sioned by Mus­soli­ni

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

It’s the End of the World as We Know It: The Apocalypse Gets Visualized in an Inventive Map from 1486

When will the world end?

We can find seri­ous sci­en­tif­ic answers to this ques­tion, depend­ing on what we mean by “world” and “end.” If civ­i­liza­tion as we cur­rent­ly know it, cli­mate sci­en­tists’ worst-case sce­nario points toward some­where around 2100 as the begin­ning of the end. (New York mag­a­zine points out that it “prob­a­bly won’t kill all of us”). It’s pos­si­ble, but not inevitable.

If we mean the end of all life on earth, the fore­cast looks quite a bit rosier: we’ve prob­a­bly got about a bil­lion years, writes astro­physi­cist Jil­lian Scud­der, before the sun becomes “hot enough to boil our oceans.” Still not a cheer­ful thought, but per­haps many more crea­tures will take after the tardi­grade by then. That’s not even to men­tion nuclear war or the epi­demics, zom­bie and oth­er­wise, that could take us out.

But of course, for a not incon­sid­er­able num­ber of people—including a few cur­rent­ly occu­py­ing key posi­tions of pow­er in the U.S.—the ques­tion of the world’s end has noth­ing to do with sci­ence at all but with escha­tol­ogy, that branch of the­o­log­i­cal thought con­cerned with the Apoc­a­lypse.

The­o­log­i­cal thinkers have writ­ten about the Apoc­a­lypse for hun­dreds of years, and the world’s end was fre­quent­ly per­ceived as just around the cor­ner for many of the same rea­sons mod­ern sec­u­lar peo­ple feel apoc­a­lyp­tic dread: dis­ease, nat­ur­al dis­as­ters, wars, rumors of wars, impe­r­i­al pow­er strug­gles, uncom­fort­ably shift­ing demo­graph­ics….

Take 15th-cen­tu­ry Europe, when “the Apoc­a­lypse weighed heav­i­ly on the minds of the peo­ple,” as Bet­sy Mason and Greg Miller write at the Nation­al Geo­graph­ic blog All Over the Map: “Plagues were ram­pant. The once-great cap­i­tal of the Roman empire, Con­stan­tino­ple, had fall­en to the Turks. Sure­ly, the end was nigh.”

While a niche pub­lish­ing mar­ket in the nascent print era pro­duced “dozens of print­ed works” describ­ing the “com­ing reck­on­ing in gory detail… one long-for­got­ten man­u­script depicts the Apoc­a­lypse in a very dif­fer­ent way—through maps.” As you can see here, these maps con­vey the unfold­ing of worse-to-wors­er sce­nar­ios in a num­ber of visu­al reg­is­ters: tem­po­ral, sym­bol­ic, geo­graph­ic, the­mat­ic, etc.

At the top, the nest­ed tri­an­gles depict the rise of the Antichrist between the years 1570 and 1600. The cen­tral con­cern for this author was the sup­posed glob­al threat of Islam. Thus, the next map, its “T” shape a com­mon Medieval world map device, shows the world before the Apoc­a­lypse, the text around it explain­ing that “Islam is on the rise from 639 to 1514.”

Then, we have a cir­cu­lar map with five swords point­ing at the edges of the known world, illus­trat­ing the author’s con­tention that Islam­ic armies would reach the edges of the earth. The oth­er maps depict the “four horns of the Antichrist,” above, Judge­ment Day, below, (the black eye at the bot­tom is the “black abyss that leads to hell”), and, fur­ther down, a dia­gram describ­ing “the rel­a­tive diam­e­ters of Earth and Hell.”

Made in Lübeck, Ger­many some­time between 1486 and 1488, the man­u­script is writ­ten in Latin, “but it’s not as schol­ar­ly as oth­er con­tem­po­rary man­u­scripts,” write Mason and Miller, “and the pen­man­ship is fair­ly poor.” His­to­ri­an of car­tog­ra­phy Chet Van Duzer explains that “it’s aimed at the cul­tur­al elite, but not the pin­na­cle of the cul­tur­al elite.”

Point­ing out the obvi­ous, Van Duzer says, “there’s no way to escape it, this work is very anti-Islam­ic,” a wide­spread sen­ti­ment in medieval Europe, when the “clash of civ­i­liza­tions” nar­ra­tive spread its roots deep in cer­tain strains of West­ern think­ing. This par­tic­u­lar text also “includes a sec­tion on astro­log­i­cal med­i­cine and a trea­tise on geog­ra­phy that’s remark­ably ahead of its time.”

Van Duzer and Ilya Dines have stud­ied the rare man­u­script for its insight­ful pas­sages on geog­ra­phy and car­tog­ra­phy and pub­lished their research in a book titled Apoc­a­lyp­tic Car­tog­ra­phy. For all its the­o­log­i­cal alarmism, the man­u­script is sur­pris­ing­ly thought­ful when it comes to ana­lyz­ing its own for­mal prop­er­ties and per­spec­tives.

Mason and Miller note that “the author out­lines an essen­tial­ly mod­ern under­stand­ing of the­mat­ic maps as a means to illus­trate char­ac­ter­is­tics of the peo­ple or polit­i­cal orga­ni­za­tion of dif­fer­ent regions.” As Van Duzer puts it, “this is one of the most amaz­ing pas­sages, to have some­one from the 15th cen­tu­ry telling you their ideas about what maps can do.” This marks the work, he claims in the intro­duc­tion to Apoc­a­lyp­tic Car­tog­ra­phy, as that “of one of the most orig­i­nal car­tog­ra­phers of the peri­od.”

The Apoc­a­lypse Map now resides at the Hunt­ing­ton Library in Los Ange­les.

via Nat Geo

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ancient Maps that Changed the World: See World Maps from Ancient Greece, Baby­lon, Rome, and the Islam­ic World

In 1704, Isaac New­ton Pre­dicts the World Will End in 2060

Down­load 67,000 His­toric Maps (in High Res­o­lu­tion) from the Won­der­ful David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion

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

 

How Women Got Dressed in the 14th & 18th Centuries: Watch the Very Painstaking Process Get Cinematically Recreated

We live in an age of con­ve­nience, and one get­ting more con­ve­nient all the time. Few com­par­isons between past and present under­score that quite so much as the morn­ing rou­tine. Hot and cold run­ning water on demand, prop­er­ly appre­ci­at­ed, can seem mirac­u­lous enough, let alone more recent devel­op­ments like the avail­abil­i­ty of high-qual­i­ty cof­fee on every city block. But con­sid­er cloth­ing, the change in whose out­ward appear­ance over the past 700 years or so goes along with an equal­ly dra­mat­ic change in use. We still wear clothes for all the same basic rea­sons we did back then, of course, but what it takes to wear them has dimin­ished to com­par­a­tive effort­less­ness.

These videos, one on get­ting dressed in the 14th cen­tu­ry and one on get­ting dressed in the 18th cen­tu­ry, offer detailed, nar­rat­ed, and cin­e­mat­ic looks at what the process once entailed — or at least what the process entailed for Eng­lish women of a cer­tain class.

The aver­age man in those peri­ods, too, had to deal with much more has­sle putting on his clothes in the morn­ing that he does today, but the female case, with its shift, stays, pet­ti­coats, pock­ets, roll, stock­ings and garters, gown and stom­ach­er, apron, and more besides, required not just a great deal of dis­ci­pline and con­cen­tra­tion on the part of the dress­er but assis­tance from anoth­er pair of hands as well.

You can find more such videos on the fin­er points of wom­en’s dress­ing rou­tines of yore, includ­ing fur­ther expla­na­tions of such ele­ments as pock­ets and busks, on this playlist. The social, tech­no­log­i­cal, and indus­tri­al sto­ries behind why it has all become so much less com­pli­cat­ed over the cen­turies has pro­vid­ed, and will con­tin­ue to pro­vide, the dri­ving ques­tions for many an aca­d­e­m­ic the­sis. But despite the enor­mous reduc­tion in the labor-inten­sive­ness of putting them on, clothes have not, of course, become a per­fect­ly sim­ple mat­ter for we dressers of the com­par­a­tive­ly ultra-casu­al 21st cen­tu­ry. Still, after watch­ing all it took to get dressed those hun­dreds and hun­dreds of years ago, many of us — male or female — might arrive at the thought that we could stand to put just a lit­tle more effort into the job.

via Boing Boing

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

An Online Trove of His­toric Sewing Pat­terns & Cos­tumes

The Dress­er: The Con­trap­tion That Makes Get­ting Dressed an Adven­ture

1930s Fash­ion Design­ers Pre­dict How Peo­ple Would Dress in the Year 2000

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.

19th Century Atlas Creatively Visualizes the Expansion of Geographical Knowledge Over 4000 Years of World History: From the Biblical Flood to the Industrial Revolution

The age of the “uni­ver­sal his­to­ry” has come and gone. The genre flour­ished in times when it seemed pos­si­ble to assume a van­tage point out­side of time—to see pur­pose and pat­tern in thou­sands of years of human action. “It might be pos­si­ble,” wrote Immanuel Kant, “to have a his­to­ry with a def­i­nite nat­ur­al plan for crea­tures who have no plan of their own.” The view assumed by such a his­to­ry tends to exclude the cir­cum­scribed per­spec­tive of the view­er, or—in Ralph Wal­do Emerson’s famous, and oft-par­o­died, phras­ing, “all mean ego­tism van­ish­es. I become a trans­par­ent eye­ball; I am noth­ing; I see all; the cur­rents of the Uni­ver­sal Being cir­cu­late through me; I am part and par­cel of God.”

Few his­to­ri­ans today assume such a gods-eye-view, for bet­ter or worse, but with­out it, we would nev­er have seen the devel­op­ment of its visu­al ana­logue: the time­line map, an info­graph­ic form espe­cial­ly pop­u­lar in the 18th to the ear­ly 20th cen­turies, when thinkers from Schiller to Herder to Kant to Hegel to Marx to Weber pro­duced uni­ver­sal accounts of human his­to­ry that, to vary­ing degrees, pur­port­ed to account for vast his­tor­i­cal devel­op­ments as the move­ment of imper­son­al forces toward some def­i­nite goal.

From the per­spec­tive of the time­line map, civ­i­liza­tions grow nat­u­ral­ly from each oth­er like branch­es from a tree, or flow one into anoth­er like a river’s trib­u­taries, or pro­duce, as in John B. Sparks “His­tom­ap,” col­or­ful puz­zles in which every piece has its neat­ly-assigned place….

We’ve fea­tured sev­er­al such maps here, like the His­tom­ap and Eugene Pick­’s 1858 Tableau De L’His­toire Uni­verselle, both from the exten­sive map col­lec­tion of David Rum­sey. In the ver­sion you see here, we have a very unusu­al vari­a­tion on the theme—rather than a his­tor­i­cal time­line map, Edward Quin pro­duced in 1830 An His­tor­i­cal Atlas; In a Series of Maps of the World as Known at Dif­fer­ent Peri­ods.

The ques­tion, “as known by whom?” seems entire­ly rel­e­vant. The per­spec­tive of Quin’s atlas is god­like, gaz­ing down at the world through the clouds, but unlike Emerson’s trans­par­ent view, it does not “see all”—those clouds occlude the vision, restrict­ing it to indi­cate, as the Rum­sey col­lec­tion notes, “the expan­sion of geo­graph­i­cal knowl­edge over time.” You’ll have to read Quin’s text—avail­able here—to under­stand how he accounts for the chronol­o­gy and per­spec­tive.

The atlas begins in 2348 B.C. with “the Del­uge,” the myth­i­cal Bib­li­cal flood. Bib­li­cal his­to­ry inex­plic­a­bly gives way to the sec­u­lar. In a descrip­tion of the atlas by Don­ald A. Head rare books, this strange doc­u­ment “intend­ed to car­to­graph­i­cal­ly depict polit­i­cal change from the time of cre­ation to the year 1828,” when it reveals “the enlight­ened world in the midst of the Indus­tri­al Rev­o­lu­tion…. Divid­ed into twen­ty-one peri­ods… the clouds ful­ly dis­ap­pear at the nine­teenth peri­od: ‘A.D. 1783 at the sep­a­ra­tion of the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca, from Eng­land.” In his pref­ace, Quin explains his project in the typ­i­cal terms of uni­ver­sal his­to­ry, as illus­trat­ing “by the changes of colour the empires which suc­ceed each oth­er.”

Quin’s descrip­tion of the unchang­ing per­spec­tive he adopts might remind some mod­ern read­ers of cer­tain com­ic book char­ac­ters as much as of the vision of a god or a trans­par­ent, detached eye: “Like the watch­man on some bea­con-tow­er, he views the hills and peo­pled val­leys around him, always the same in sit­u­a­tion and in form, but every chang­ing aspect of the hours and sea­sons….” View Quin’s com­plete His­tor­i­cal Atlas, scanned in high res­o­lu­tion detail, at the David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion.

On our page here, see indi­vid­ual pages from the His­tor­i­cal Atlas. Or, up top, see an ani­mat­ed gif that lets you view all 21 maps in the atlas in chrono­log­i­cal order.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

4000 Years of His­to­ry Dis­played in a 5‑Foot-Long “His­tom­ap” (Ear­ly Info­graph­ic) From 1931

Ground­break­ing Map from 1858 Col­or­ful­ly Visu­al­izes 6,000 Years of World His­to­ry

10 Mil­lion Years of Evo­lu­tion Visu­al­ized in an Ele­gant, 5‑Foot Long Info­graph­ic from 1931

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

Get the History of the World in 46 Lectures: A Free Online Course from Columbia University

When you dive into our col­lec­tion of 1,700 Free Online Cours­es, you can begin an intel­lec­tu­al jour­ney that can last for many months, if not years. The col­lec­tion lets you drop into the class­rooms of lead­ing uni­ver­si­ties (like Stan­ford, Har­vard, MIT and Oxford) and essen­tial­ly audit their cours­es for free. You get to be a fly on the wall and soak up what­ev­er knowl­edge you want. All you need is an inter­net con­nec­tion and some free time on your hands.

Today, we’re fea­tur­ing two cours­es taught by Pro­fes­sor Richard Bul­li­et at Colum­bia Uni­ver­si­ty, which will teach you the his­to­ry of the world in 46 lec­tures. The first course, His­to­ry of the World to 1500 CE (avail­able on YouTube and iTunes Video, or ful­ly stream­able below) takes you from pre­his­toric times to 1500, the cusp of ear­ly moder­ni­ty. The ori­gins of agri­cul­ture; the Greek, Roman and Per­sian empires; the rise of Islam and Chris­t­ian medieval king­doms; trans­for­ma­tions in Asia; and the Mar­itime rev­o­lu­tion — they’re all cov­ered here.

In the sec­ond course, His­to­ry of the World Since 1500 CE (find it on YouTube, iTunes or embed­ded below), Bul­li­et focus­es on the rise of colo­nial­ism in the Amer­i­c­as and India; his­tor­i­cal devel­op­ments in Chi­na, Japan and Korea; the Indus­tri­al Rev­o­lu­tion; the Ottoman Empire; the emer­gence of Social Dar­win­ism; and var­i­ous key moments in 20th cen­tu­ry his­to­ry.

Bul­li­et helped write the pop­u­lar text­book The Earth and its Peo­ples: A Glob­al His­to­ry, and it serves as the main text­book for the course. Above, we’re start­ing you off with Lec­ture 2, which moves from the Ori­gins of Agri­cul­ture to the First Riv­er — Val­ley Civ­i­liza­tions, cir­ca 8000–1500 B.C.E. The first lec­ture deals with method­olog­i­cal issues that under­pin the course. All of the remain­ing lec­tures are avail­able below.

Once you get the big pic­ture with Pro­fes­sor Bul­li­et, don’t for­get to vis­it our col­lec­tion of Free Online His­to­ry Cours­es, a sub­set of our big col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

His­to­ry of the World to 1500 CE 

His­to­ry of the World Since 1500 CE

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in April, 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Big His­to­ry: David Chris­t­ian Cov­ers 13.7 Bil­lion Years of His­to­ry in 18 Min­utes

Down­load 78 Free Online His­to­ry Cours­es: From Ancient Greece to The Mod­ern World

The Com­plete His­to­ry of the World (and Human Cre­ativ­i­ty) in 100 Objects

A Free Yale Course on Medieval His­to­ry: 700 Years in 22 Lec­tures

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Groundbreaking Map from 1858 Colorfully Visualizes 6,000 Years of World History

We start to under­stand his­to­ry by lis­ten­ing to it told to us ver­bal­ly, which lets us visu­al­ize it in our imag­i­na­tion. But how much more might we under­stand his­to­ry if we could see it ren­dered visu­al­ly right before our eyes? That ques­tion seems to have occu­pied the minds of cer­tain of the car­tog­ra­phers of 19th-cen­tu­ry Europe, those who want­ed to take their craft beyond its tra­di­tion­al lim­its in order to do for chronol­o­gy what it had long done for geog­ra­phy. Here we have one of the most glo­ri­ous such attempts in exis­tence, Eugene Pick­’s 1858 Tableau De L’His­toire Uni­verselle — or at least the half cov­er­ing the civ­i­liza­tions of the East­ern Hemi­sphere — as held in the David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion.

At first glance, all of the infor­ma­tion on the map might appear over­whelm­ing. But zoom in (look­ing at the cen­ter first, ide­al­ly from top to bot­tom) and you’ll soon grasp how Pick has depict­ed the his­to­ry of the world, as a mid-19th-cen­tu­ry French­man would con­ceive of it it, by draw­ing a kind of net­work of rivers and trib­u­taries.

The “sources” of ancient civ­i­liza­tions, like those of the Greeks, the Phoeni­cians, the Egyp­tians, and the Chi­nese, flow down to those of var­i­ous descen­dants — the Gauls, the Nor­we­gians, the Rus­sians, the Turks — and the mighty empires in which they pool, and arrive at the nations of the Danes, the Swedes, the Bel­gians, the Span­ish, the Per­sians, and oth­ers besides. In total the map cov­ers 6,000 years of his­to­ry, mov­ing from 4004 B.C. to 1856.

This tech­nique of visu­al­iz­ing his­to­ry has its prece­dents, includ­ing Friedrich Strass’ Der Strom der Zeit­en oder bildliche Darstel­lung der Welt­geschichte, pic­tured just above (and lat­er updat­ed by Amer­i­can map­mak­er Joseph Hutchins Colton as The Stream of Time in the 1840s and 1860s.) The David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion notes that, unlike Strass’ map, Pick­’s also has “vignettes of peo­ple, build­ings, his­tor­i­cal scenes and impor­tant places in the his­to­ry of the world” lined up on either side of the main con­tent. It thus illu­mi­nates the abstract and con­tin­u­ous cen­tral ren­der­ing of his­to­ry with rep­re­sen­ta­tive, dis­crete ones, show­ing view­ers every­thing from the Bib­li­cal flood and the Tow­er of Babel to the Great Sphinx of Giza and Agrip­pa’s Pan­theon to Notre Dame and the Arc de Tri­om­phe. It has a cer­tain fran­co­cen­trism, to be sure, but con­sid­er how many in Pick­’s time con­sid­ered France the cen­ter of human­i­ty’s genius. Pro­duc­ing a map as com­pelling as this one could­n’t have dimin­ished that image.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the His­to­ry of the World Unfold on an Ani­mat­ed Map: From 200,000 BCE to Today

The His­to­ry of Civ­i­liza­tion Mapped in 13 Min­utes: 5000 BC to 2014 AD

5‑Minute Ani­ma­tion Maps 2,600 Years of West­ern Cul­tur­al His­to­ry

The His­to­ry of Car­tog­ra­phy, the “Most Ambi­tious Overview of Map Mak­ing Ever,” Is Now Free Online

Down­load 67,000 His­toric Maps (in High Res­o­lu­tion) from the Won­der­ful David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion

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.

National Geographic Has Digitized Its Collection of 6,000+ Vintage Maps: See a Curated Selection of Maps Published Between 1888 and Today

As some of the finest fic­tion­al world-builders have under­stood, few things excite the imag­i­na­tion like a map. And despite the geo­graph­i­cal lim­i­ta­tion implied by its title, Nation­al Geo­graph­ic’s maps have sur­veyed the entire globe and beyond. The magazine’s arti­cles have not always pre­sent­ed an enlight­ened point of view, but for all its his­tor­i­cal fail­ings, the rich­ly-illus­trat­ed month­ly has excelled as a show­case for car­tog­ra­phy, over which read­ers might spend hours, pro­ject­ing them­selves into unknown lands, jour­ney­ing through the care­ful­ly-drawn topogra­phies, cityscapes, and celes­tial charts.

Start­ed as the offi­cial jour­nal of the Nation­al Geo­graph­ic Soci­ety, the mag­a­zine has amassed a huge, 130-year archive of  “edi­to­r­i­al car­tog­ra­phy,” the Nation­al Geo­graph­ic site writes. “Now, for the first time,” that col­lec­tion is avail­able online, “every map ever pub­lished in the mag­a­zine since the first issue of Octo­ber 1888.”

The entire archive is only avail­able to sub­scribers (how­ev­er you can find curat­ed selec­tions on the Nat­Ge­oMaps Twit­ter, Insta­gram, and Face­book accounts), but we can still see an aston­ish­ing qual­i­ty and vari­ety on dis­play in dozens of maps on social media of every con­ceiv­able loca­tion, top­ic, and event, begin­ning with the very first pub­lished map, depict­ing the Great White Hur­ri­cane, “one of the most severe bliz­zards to ever hit the Unit­ed States” (above)—the “start of a long tra­di­tion… of enhanc­ing sto­ry­telling with maps.”

As long­time read­ers of Nation­al Geo­graph­ic well know, the maps—often sep­a­ra­ble from the mag­a­zine in fold-outs suit­able for hang­ing on the wall—function as more than visu­al aids. They tell their own sto­ries. “A map is able to con­nect with some­body in a dif­fer­ent way than a text will or a pho­to will,” notes the magazine’s direc­tor of car­tog­ra­phy Mar­tin Gamache. Maps “engage with a dif­fer­ent part of our psy­che or our brain.” From its ear­li­est artic­u­la­tion, geog­ra­phy has inclined toward the poet­ic. The ancient geo­g­ra­ph­er Stra­bo cred­it­ed Homer as “the founder of geo­graph­i­cal sci­ence,” who “reached the utmost lim­its of the earth, tra­vers­ing it in his imag­i­na­tion.” Maps present us with a visu­al poet­ry often Home­r­ic in its scope.

Though so many of these maps are detach­able, it often helps to under­stand the spe­cif­ic con­text in which they were cre­at­ed, which doesn’t always appear in a self-con­tained leg­end. The map above, for exam­ple, pub­lished in March 1966, shows the Krem­lin “in unprece­dent­ed detail,” as the magazine’s Twit­ter account points out: “Sovi­et reg­u­la­tions pro­hib­it­ed aer­i­al pho­tos, so artists col­lect­ed dia­grams and ground-lev­el pho­tos to draft a sketch that was brought to Moscow and cor­rect­ed on the spot.” Fur­ther up, we see a map of Mex­i­co from May 1914, “one of the first gen­er­al ref­er­ence maps of the coun­try” from the Nation­al Geo­graph­ic archive. The map at the top, from the Decem­ber 1922 issue, is the magazine’s very first pub­lished gen­er­al ref­er­ence map of the world.

There are maps celes­tial, as above from 1957, and architectural—such as recent dig­i­tal recre­ations of King Tut’s tomb, late­ly revealed to have no hid­den cham­bers left to explore. Maps of plan­ets beyond the solar sys­tem and plan­ets (or “dwarf plan­ets”) with­in it, such as this first pub­lished map of Plu­to. Maps of rivers like the Rhine and spec­tac­u­lar nat­ur­al for­ma­tions like the Grand Canyon. There are even maps of flow­ers, like that pub­lished below in May 1968, show­ing “the ori­gins of 117 types of blooms.” Some maps are much less joy­ous, like this recent series show­ing what the world might look like if all of the ice melt­ed. Some are pure­ly for fun, like this series on the geog­ra­phy of Star Wars and oth­er fic­tion­al fran­chis­es.

If we can imag­ine it, Nation­al Geo­graph­ic sug­gests, we can map it, and con­verse­ly, when we see a map, our imag­i­na­tions are imme­di­ate­ly engaged. Learn more at the Nat­Geo blog All Over the Map, and con­nect with many more curat­ed maps from this huge col­lec­tion at the magazine’s Twit­ter, Insta­gram, and Face­book accounts.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Map Show­ing How the Ancient Romans Envi­sioned the World in 40 AD

The Illus­trat­ed Med­i­c­i­nal Plant Map of the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca (1932): Down­load It in High Res­o­lu­tion

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

Inter­ac­tive Map Shows the Seizure of Over 1.5 Bil­lion Acres of Native Amer­i­can Land Between 1776 and 1887

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

The 16,000 Artworks the Nazis Censored and Labeled “Degenerate Art”: The Complete Historic Inventory Is Now Online

The Nazis may not have known art, but they knew what they liked, and much more so what they did­n’t. We’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture the “Degen­er­ate Art Exhi­bi­tion” of 1937, put on by Hitler’s par­ty four years after it rose to pow­er. Fol­low­ing on a show of only Nazi-approved works — includ­ing many depic­tions of clas­si­cal­ly Ger­man­ic land­scapes, robust sol­diers in action, blonde nudes — it toured the coun­try with the intent of reveal­ing to the Ger­man peo­ple the “insult to Ger­man feel­ing” com­mit­ted by Entartete Kun­st (Degen­er­ate art), a Nazi-defined cat­e­go­ry of art cre­at­ed by the likes of Paul Klee, Wass­i­ly Kandin­sky, Max Beck­mann, George Grosz, and oth­ers, a ros­ter heavy on the abstract, the expres­sion­is­tic, and the Jew­ish.

Now, thanks to the Vic­to­ria and Albert Muse­um, we know exact­ly which works of art the Nazis con­demned. “The V&A holds the only known copy of a com­plete inven­to­ry of ‘Entartete Kun­st’ con­fis­cat­ed by the Nazi regime from pub­lic insti­tu­tions in Ger­many, most­ly dur­ing 1937 and 1938,” says the muse­um’s site.

“The list of more than 16,000 art­works was pro­duced by the Reichsmin­is­teri­um für Volk­saufk­lärung und Pro­pa­gan­da (Reich Min­istry for Pub­lic Enlight­en­ment and Pro­pa­gan­da) in 1942 or there­abouts. It seems that the inven­to­ry was com­piled as a final record, after the sales and dis­pos­als of the con­fis­cat­ed art had been com­plet­ed in the sum­mer of 1941.”

You can read and down­load the entire doc­u­ment, which pro­vides “cru­cial infor­ma­tion about the prove­nance, exhi­bi­tion his­to­ry and fate of each art­work,” in PDF form at the V&A’s page about it.

Daunt­ing though the inven­to­ry itself may seem, Hyper­al­ler­gic’s Jil­lian Stein­hauer points out “a way to con­nect many of these pieces to the present day: an online data­base main­tained by the Freie Uni­ver­sität Berlin. You can plug an artwork’s inven­to­ry num­ber from the Nazi log books direct­ly into their search engine, and it will pull up a record.” Here you see Max Beck­man­n’s Zwei Auto-Offiziere, El Lis­sitzky’s Proun R.V.N. 2, and Paul Klee’s Garten der Lei­den­schaft, just three exam­ples of the thou­sands upon thou­sands of images that Hitler and com­pa­ny con­sid­ered a threat to their regime. Today, the artis­tic mer­its of work by these and oth­er artists once labeled Entartete Kun­st have drawn more admir­ers than ever — though the very fact that the Nazis did­n’t like it con­sti­tutes a decent rea­son for appre­ci­a­tion as well.

via Hyper­al­ler­gic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Nazi’s Philis­tine Grudge Against Abstract Art and The “Degen­er­ate Art Exhi­bi­tion” of 1937

How the CIA Secret­ly Fund­ed Abstract Expres­sion­ism Dur­ing the Cold War

The Nazis’ 10 Con­trol-Freak Rules for Jazz Per­form­ers: A Strange List from World War II

Joseph Stal­in, a Life­long Edi­tor, Wield­ed a Big, Blue, Dan­ger­ous Pen­cil

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.

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