The Female Pioneers of the Bauhaus Art Movement: Discover Gertrud Arndt, Marianne Brandt, Anni Albers & Other Forgotten Innovators

You’d be for­giv­en for assum­ing that the Bauhaus, the mod­ern art and design move­ment that emerged from the epony­mous Ger­man art school in the 1920s and 30s, did­n’t involve many women. Per­haps the famous near-indus­tri­al aus­ter­i­ty of its aes­thet­ic, espe­cial­ly at large scales, has stereo­typ­i­cal asso­ci­a­tions with male­ness, but also, Bauhaus’ most oft-ref­er­enced lead­ing lights — Paul Klee, Wal­ter Gropius, Wass­i­ly Kandin­sky, Lás­zló Moholy-Nagy, Oskar Schlem­mer — all hap­pened to be men. But if we seek out the women of the Bauhaus, what can we learn?

“When it opened, the Bauhaus school declared itself pro­gres­sive and mod­ern and advo­cat­ed equal­i­ty for the sex­es, which was rare at the time,” says Eve­lyn Adams in her short video on the Women of the Bauhaus above. “Val­ue was placed on skill rather than gen­der. Class­es weren’t seg­re­gat­ed, and women were free to select whichev­er sub­jects they want­ed.”

This had an under­stand­able appeal, and in the school’s first year more women applied than men. But alas, “in real­i­ty, despite hav­ing rad­i­cal aspi­ra­tions, the men in charge of the school rep­re­sent­ed the soci­etal atti­tudes of the time. If every­one was wel­comed as equals, then why did none of the women reach the same lev­el of recog­ni­tion as Paul Klee or Wass­i­ly Kandin­sky?”

The sto­ry of Gertrud Arndt, one of whose self-por­traits appears above and one of whose tex­tiles appears below that, sheds some light on the answer. “She must have felt so opti­mistic,” writes the New York Times’ Alice Raw­sthorn, when she arrived at the Bauhaus school of art and design in 1923 as “a gift­ed, spir­it­ed 20-year-old who had won a schol­ar­ship to pay for her stud­ies. Hav­ing spent sev­er­al years work­ing as an appren­tice to a firm of archi­tects, she had set her heart on study­ing archi­tec­ture.” But because of a “long-run­ning bat­tle between its found­ing direc­tor, the archi­tect Wal­ter Gropius, and one of its most charis­mat­ic teach­ers, Johannes Itten, who want­ed to use the school as a vehi­cle for his qua­si-spir­i­tu­al approach to art and design,” the Bauhaus’ house, as it were, had fall­en out of order.

Alas, “Arndt was told that there was no archi­tec­ture course for her to join and was dis­patched to the weav­ing work­shop.” In recent years, the Bauhaus Archive in Berlin has put on shows to hon­or female Bauhausers like Ard­nt, tex­tile design­er Beni­ta Koch-Otte, and the­ater design­er, illus­tra­tor, and col­or the­o­rist Lou Schep­er-Berkenkamp. “The sit­u­a­tion improved after Gropius suc­ceed­ed in oust­ing Itten in 1923,” writes Raw­sthorn, hir­ing Moholy-Nagy in Itten’s place. “Hav­ing ensured that female stu­dents were giv­en greater free­dom, Moholy encour­aged one of them, Mar­i­anne Brandt, to join the met­al work­shop. She was to become one of Germany’s fore­most indus­tri­al design­ers dur­ing the 1930s,” and her 1924 tea infuser and strain­er appears just above.

Art­sy’s Alexxa Got­thardt has the sto­ries of more women of the Bauhaus, includ­ing Anni Albers, whose 1947 Knot 2 appears just above. Her oth­er work includes “a cot­ton and cel­lo­phane cur­tain that simul­ta­ne­ous­ly absorbed sound and reflect­ed light” and tapes­tries that “would go on to have a con­sid­er­able impact on the devel­op­ment of geo­met­ric abstrac­tion in the visu­al arts.” Alma Sied­hoff-Busch­er, writes Got­thardt, dared “to switch from the weav­ing work­shop to the male-dom­i­nat­ed wood-sculp­ture depart­ment,” where she invent­ed a “small ship-build­ing game,” pic­tured below and still in pro­duc­tion today, that “man­i­fest­ed Bauhaus’s cen­tral tenets: its 22 blocks, forged in pri­ma­ry col­ors, could be con­struct­ed into the shape of a boat, but could also be rearranged to allow for cre­ative exper­i­men­ta­tion.”

Bauhaus art and design took crit­i­cism in its hey­day, as it still takes crit­i­cism now, for a cer­tain cold­ness and steril­i­ty — or at least the work of the men of the Bauhaus does. But the more we dis­cov­er about the less­er-known women of the Bauhaus, the more we see how they man­aged to bring no small degree of human­i­ty to its artis­tic fruits, even to those of its most rig­or­ous branch­es. “There is no dif­fer­ence between the beau­ti­ful sex and the strong sex,” Gropius once insist­ed in a some­what self-defeat­ing pro­nounce­ment, but the dif­fer­ences between the male and female Bauhausers — in their per­son­al­i­ties as well as in their work — make the move­ment look all the rich­er in ret­ro­spect.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load Orig­i­nal Bauhaus Books & Jour­nals for Free: Gropius, Klee, Kandin­sky, Moholy-Nagy & More

3,900 Pages of Paul Klee’s Per­son­al Note­books Are Now Online, Pre­sent­ing His Bauhaus Teach­ings (1921–1931)

Kandin­sky, Klee & Oth­er Bauhaus Artists Designed Inge­nious Cos­tumes Like You’ve Nev­er Seen Before

Watch an Avant-Garde Bauhaus Bal­let in Bril­liant Col­or, the Tri­adic Bal­let First Staged by Oskar Schlem­mer in 1922

32,000+ Bauhaus Art Objects Made Avail­able Online by Har­vard Muse­um Web­site

Bauhaus, Mod­ernism & Oth­er Design Move­ments Explained by New Ani­mat­ed Video Series

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Why Cartoon Characters Wear Gloves: A Curious Trip Through the History of Animation

It’s rare for Dis­ney to over­look a mar­ket­ing oppor­tu­ni­ty. For years, Mouse Ears were the film studio’s theme park sou­venir of choice, but recent­ly the gift shops have start­ed stock­ing white four-fin­gered gloves too.

Per­haps not the most sen­si­ble choice for dip­ping into a buck­et of jalapeño pop­pers or a $6 Mick­ey Pret­zel with Cheese Sauce, but the gloves have unde­ni­able reach when it comes to car­toon his­to­ry. Bugs Bun­ny wears them. So does Woody Wood­peck­er, Tom (though not Jer­ry), and Bet­ty Boop’s anthro­po­mor­phic dog­gie pal, Bim­bo.

As Vox’s Estelle Caswell points out above, the choice to glove Mick­ey and his ear­ly 20th-cen­tu­ry car­toon brethren was born of prac­ti­cal­i­ty. The lim­it­ed palette of black and white ani­ma­tion meant that most ani­mal char­ac­ters had black bodies—their arms dis­ap­peared against every inky expanse.

It also pro­vid­ed artists with a bit of relief, back when ani­ma­tion meant end­less hours of labor over hand drawn cells. Puffy gloves aren’t just a com­i­cal cap­per to bendy rub­ber hose limbs. They’re also way eas­i­er to draw than real­is­tic pha­langes.

As Walt Dis­ney him­self explained:

We did­n’t want him to have mouse hands, because he was sup­posed to be more human. So we gave him gloves. Five Fin­gers looked like too much on such a lit­tle fig­ure, so we took one away. That was just one less fin­ger to ani­mate.

Caswell digs deep­er than that, unearthing a sur­pris­ing cul­tur­al com­par­i­son. White gloves were a stan­dard part of black­face per­form­ers’ min­strel show cos­tumes. Audi­ences who packed the­aters for tour­ing min­strel shows were the same peo­ple lin­ing up for Steam­boat Willie.

Com­ic ani­ma­tion has evolved both visu­al­ly and in terms of con­tent over its near hun­dred year his­to­ry, but ani­ma­tors have a ten­den­cy to revere the his­to­ry of their pro­fes­sion.

Thus­ly do South Park’s ani­ma­tors bestow spot­less white gloves upon Mr. Han­key the Christ­mas Poo.

“Amer­i­ca’s favorite cat and mouse team,” the Simp­sons’  Itchy and Scratchy, mete out their hor­rif­i­cal­ly vio­lent pun­ish­ment in pris­tine white gloves.

Clear­ly some things are worth pre­serv­ing…

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Dis­ney Car­toon That Intro­duced Mick­ey Mouse & Ani­ma­tion with Sound (1928)

Disney’s 12 Time­less Prin­ci­ples of Ani­ma­tion Demon­strat­ed in 12 Ani­mat­ed Primers

Free Ani­mat­ed Films: From Clas­sic to Mod­ern 

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine, appear­ing onstage in New York City through June 26 in Paul David Young’s Faust 3. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

2,000-Year-Old Manuscript of the Ten Commandments Gets Digitized: See/Download “Nash Papyrus” in High Resolution

How old is the Torah, the first five books of the Hebrew Bible? As with most such ques­tions about dis­put­ed reli­gious texts, it depends on whom you ask. Many con­ser­v­a­tive Jew­ish and Chris­t­ian scholars—or “maximalists”—have long accept­ed the text as con­tain­ing gen­uine his­tor­i­cal records, and dat­ed them as ear­ly as pos­si­ble. Mod­ern crit­i­cal schol­ars, the “min­i­mal­ists,” informed by arche­ol­o­gy, have made strong empir­i­cal cas­es against his­toric­i­ty, and date the texts much lat­er.

These debates can become high­ly spec­u­la­tive the fur­ther back schol­ars attempt to push the Bib­li­cal ori­gins. One has to take cer­tain claims on faith. As far as the tex­tu­al evi­dence goes, the ear­li­est com­plete man­u­scripts we have are the so-called “Masoret­ic Text,” copied, edit­ed, and dis­sem­i­nat­ed between the 7th and 10th cen­turies CE. But we have frag­ments that date back over two thou­sand years, dis­cov­ered in the Qum­ran Caves among the Dead Sea Scrolls in the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry. Pri­or to their dis­cov­ery, the old­est known frag­ment was known as the “Nash Papyrus,” which dates from the sec­ond cen­tu­ry, BCE.

Pur­chased from an Egypt­ian antiq­ui­ties deal­er in 1902 by Egyp­tol­o­gist Dr. Wal­ter Llewl­lyn Nash and donat­ed to the Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty Library the fol­low­ing year, the papyrus con­tains a com­pos­ite of the two dif­fer­ent ver­sions of the Ten Com­mand­ments, from Exo­dus 20 and Deuteron­o­my 5, and the She­ma, a prayer from Deuteron­o­my 6. In 2012, the Nash Papyrus was dig­i­tized, “one of the lat­est trea­sures of human­i­ty,” report­ed Reuters, “to join Isaac Newton’s note­books, the Nurem­berg Chron­i­cle and oth­er rare texts as part of the Cam­bridge Dig­i­tal Library.”

“It has been sug­gest­ed,” notes the Cam­bridge descrip­tion of the ancient man­u­script, “that it is, in fact, from a phy­lac­tery (tefill­in, used in dai­ly prayer).” But the papyrus’ actu­al ori­gins are uncer­tain, though it “was said to have come from the Fayyum,” a city near Cairo. And while the Nash Papyrus may not resolve any debates about the Torah’s ori­gins, its open acces­si­bil­i­ty is a boon for schol­ars grap­pling with the ques­tions. As uni­ver­si­ty librar­i­an Anne Jarvis said upon its dig­i­tal release, the “age and del­i­ca­cy” of the man­u­script make it “sel­dom able to be viewed” in per­son. The leaf papyrus is, as the Cam­bridge Dig­i­tal Library notes, full of holes, “bare­ly leg­i­ble” and com­posed of “four sep­a­rate pieces fixed togeth­er.”

At the library site, users can see it in high res­o­lu­tion, zoom­ing in very close­ly to any area they choose. You can also down­load the image, embed it, or share it on social media. And if that gets your ancient Bib­li­cal engines run­ning, you can then see dig­i­tal Dead Sea Scroll man­u­scripts of the Ten Com­mand­ments here and get an up close look at many oth­er texts from that ancient trea­sure trove—as well as learn about them in a free online Rut­gers course—here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Google Dig­i­tizes Ancient Copies of the Ten Com­mand­ments and Gen­e­sis

Google Puts The Dead Sea Scrolls Online (in Super High Res­o­lu­tion)

Har­vard Presents Two Free Online Cours­es on the Old Tes­ta­ment

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

Carl Sagan Sent Music & Photos Into Space So That Aliens Could Understand Human Civilization (Even After We’re Gone)

A pop­u­lar thought exper­i­ment asks us to imag­ine an advanced alien species arriv­ing on Earth, not in an H.G. Wells-style inva­sion, but as advanced, bemused, and benev­o­lent observers. “Wouldn’t they be appalled,” we won­der, “shocked, con­fused at how back­ward we are?” It’s a pure­ly rhetor­i­cal device—the sec­u­lar equiv­a­lent of tak­ing a “god’s eye view” of human fol­ly. Few peo­ple seri­ous­ly enter­tain the pos­si­bil­i­ty in polite com­pa­ny. Unless they work at NASA or the SETI pro­gram.

In 1977, upon the launch­ing of Voy­ager 1 and Voy­ager 2, a com­mit­tee work­ing under Carl Sagan pro­duced the so-called “Gold­en Records,” actu­al phono­graph­ic LPs made of cop­per con­tain­ing “a col­lec­tion of sounds and images,” writes Joss Fong at Vox, “that will prob­a­bly out­last all human arti­facts on Earth.” While they weren’t prepar­ing for a vis­i­ta­tion on Earth, they did—relying not on wish­ful think­ing but on the con­tro­ver­sial Drake Equa­tion—ful­ly expect that oth­er tech­no­log­i­cal civ­i­liza­tions might well exist in the cos­mos, and assumed a like­li­hood we might encounter one, at least via remote.

Sagan tasked him­self with com­pil­ing what he called a “bot­tle” in “the cos­mic ocean,” and some­thing of a time cap­sule of human­i­ty. Over a year’s time, Sagan and his team col­lect­ed 116 images and dia­grams, nat­ur­al sounds, spo­ken greet­ings in 55 lan­guages, print­ed mes­sages, and musi­cal selec­tions from around the world–things that would com­mu­ni­cate to aliens what our human civ­i­liza­tion is essen­tial­ly all about. The images were encod­ed onto the records in black and white (you can see them all in the Vox video above in col­or). The audio, which you can play in its entire­ty below, was etched into the sur­face of the record. On the cov­er were etched a series of pic­to­graph­ic instruc­tions for how to play and decode its con­tents. (Scroll over the inter­ac­tive image at the top to see each sym­bol explained.)

Fong out­lines those con­tents, writ­ing, “any aliens who come across the Gold­en Record are in for a treat.” That is, if they are able to make sense of it and don’t find us hor­ri­bly back­ward. Among the audio selec­tions are greet­ings from then-UN Sec­re­tary Gen­er­al Kurt Wald­heim, whale songs, Bach’s Bran­den­berg Con­cer­to No. 2 in F, Sene­galese per­cus­sion, Abo­rig­ine songs, Peru­vian pan­pipes and drums, Nava­jo chant, Blind Willie Johnson’s “Dark Was the Night” (play­ing in the Vox video), more Bach, Beethoven, and “John­ny B. Goode.” Chal­lenged over includ­ing “ado­les­cent” rock and roll, Sagan replied, “there are a lot of ado­les­cents on the plan­et.” The Bea­t­les report­ed­ly want­ed to con­tribute “Here Comes the Sun,” but their record com­pa­ny wouldn’t allow it, pre­sum­ably fear­ing copy­right infringe­ment from aliens.

Also con­tained in the space­far­ing archive is a mes­sage from then-pres­i­dent Jim­my Carter, who writes opti­misti­cal­ly, “We are a com­mu­ni­ty of 240 mil­lion human beings among the more than 4 bil­lion who inhab­it plan­et Earth. We human beings are still divid­ed into nation states, but these states are rapid­ly becom­ing a sin­gle glob­al civ­i­liza­tion.” The mes­sages on Voy­agers 1 and 2, Carter fore­casts, are “like­ly to sur­vive a bil­lion years into our future, when our civ­i­liza­tion is pro­found­ly altered and the sur­face of the Earth may be vast­ly changed.” The team chose not to include images of war and human cru­el­ty.

We only have a few years left to find out whether either Voy­ager will encounter oth­er beings. “Incred­i­bly,” writes Fong, the probes “are still com­mu­ni­cat­ing with Earth—they aren’t expect­ed to lose pow­er until the 2020s.” It seems even more incred­i­ble, forty years lat­er, when we con­sid­er their prim­i­tive tech­nol­o­gy: “an 8‑track mem­o­ry sys­tem and onboard com­put­ers that are thou­sands of times weak­er than the phone in your pock­et.”

The Voy­agers were not the first probes sent to inter­stel­lar space. Pio­neer 10 and 11 were launched in 1972 and 1973, each con­tain­ing a Sagan-designed alu­minum plaque with a few sim­ple mes­sages and depic­tions of a nude man and woman, an addi­tion that scan­dal­ized some puri­tan­i­cal crit­ics. NASA has since lost touch with both Pio­neers, but you may recall that in 2006, the agency launched the New Hori­zons probe, which passed by Plu­to in 2015 and should reach inter­stel­lar space in anoth­er thir­ty years.

Per­haps due to the lack of the depart­ed Sagan’s involve­ment, the lat­est “bot­tle” con­tains no intro­duc­tions. But there is time to upload some, and one of the Gold­en Record team mem­bers, Jon Lomberg, wants to do just that, send­ing a crowd­sourced “mes­sage to the stars.” Lomberg’s New Horizon’s Mes­sage Ini­tia­tive is a “glob­al project that brings the peo­ple of the world togeth­er to speak as one.” The lim­i­ta­tions of ana­log tech­nol­o­gy have made the Gold­en Record selec­tions seem quite nar­row from our data-sat­u­rat­ed point of view. The new mes­sage might con­tain almost any­thing we can imag­ine. Vis­it the pro­jec­t’s site to sign the peti­tion, donate, and con­sid­er, just what would you want an alien civ­i­liza­tion to hear, see, and under­stand about the best of human­i­ty cir­ca 2017?

via Ezra Klein/Vox

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Carl Sagan Presents a Mini-Course on Earth, Mars & What’s Beyond Our Solar Sys­tem: For Kids and Adults (1977)

NASA Releas­es a Mas­sive Online Archive: 140,000 Pho­tos, Videos & Audio Files Free to Search and Down­load

NASA’s New Online Archive Puts a Wealth of Free Sci­ence Arti­cles Online

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

London in Vivid Color 125 Years Ago: See Trafalgar Square, the British Museum, Tower Bridge & Other Famous Landmarks in Photocrom Prints

“When a man is tired of Lon­don,” Samuel John­son so famous­ly said, “he is tired of life.” Of course, P.J. O’Rourke lat­er added that “he might just be tired of shab­by, sad crowds, low-income hous­ing that looks worse than the weath­er, and tat­too-faced, spike-haired pea brains on the dole,” but then, every­one expe­ri­ences the Eng­lish cap­i­tal a bit dif­fer­ent­ly. John­son’s Lon­don, the Lon­don of the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry, looks to some like a city at its zenith; oth­ers might even think the same about the Lon­don O’Rourke made fun of in the 1980s. Every era in Lon­don is a gold­en age to some­one.

Today, we offer a vivid glimpse into anoth­er dis­tinct peri­od in Lon­don his­to­ry, the late nine­teenth cen­tu­ry, by way of the Library of Con­gress’ col­lec­tion of pho­tocrom prints. A few years ago we fea­tured images of Venice cap­tured with the same col­orized-pho­tog­ra­phy process, which pro­duced what the Library of Con­gress describes as ink-based images made with “the direct pho­to­graph­ic trans­fer of an orig­i­nal neg­a­tive onto litho and chro­mo­graph­ic print­ing plates.”

They may “look decep­tive­ly like col­or pho­tographs,” but “when viewed with a mag­ni­fy­ing glass the small dots that com­prise the ink-based pho­to­me­chan­i­cal image are vis­i­ble. The pho­to­me­chan­i­cal process per­mit­ted mass pro­duc­tion of the vivid col­or prints.”

The late nine­teenth and ear­ly twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry saw the emer­gence of a robust mar­ket for pho­tocrom prints, “sold at tourist sites and through mail order cat­a­logs to globe trot­ters, arm­chair trav­el­ers, edu­ca­tors, and oth­ers to pre­serve in albums or put on dis­play.” Hence, per­haps, the focus on Lon­don sites of touris­tic appeal: Tow­er Bridge, Trafal­gar Square, the British Muse­um, and even the ful­ly out­fit­ted “Yeo­man of the Guard” you see just above. But print also (and by appear­ances more cor­rect­ly) describes him as a “Beefeater,” the pop­u­lar name for the dif­fer­ent body of cer­e­mo­ni­al tow­er guardians the Yeomen Warders of Her Majesty’s Roy­al Palace and Fortress the Tow­er of Lon­don, and Mem­bers of the Sov­er­eign’s Body Guard of the Yeo­man Guard Extra­or­di­nary. (Got that?)

You can browse, and in var­i­ous for­mats down­load, the 33 images in the Library of Con­gress’ Lon­don pho­tocrom print col­lec­tion here. They all date from between 1890 and 1900, as do the near­ly 1000 images in their Eng­land pho­tocrom print col­lec­tion, whose loca­tions extend far beyond Lon­don. Go to Eng­land today and you’ll notice how much has changed in the past 125 or so years, of course, but how much has­n’t. Grum­bling being some­thing of a nation­al sport over there, espe­cial­ly in Lon­don, the trav­el­er hears no end of com­plaints about how the city and coun­try have gone to the dogs, but can also take some com­fort in the fact that, even back in the pic­turesque pho­tocrom era, peo­ple were air­ing all the same gripes.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Prize-Win­ning Ani­ma­tion Lets You Fly Through 17th Cen­tu­ry Lon­don

1927 Lon­don Shown in Mov­ing Col­or

Lon­don Mashed Up: Footage of the City from 1924 Lay­ered Onto Footage from 2013

2,000 Years of London’s His­tor­i­cal Devel­op­ment, Ani­mat­ed in 7 Min­utes

Venice in Beau­ti­ful Col­or Images 125 Years Ago: The Rial­to Bridge, St. Mark’s Basil­i­ca, Doge’s Palace & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The CIA Assesses the Power of French Post-Modern Philosophers: Read a Newly Declassified CIA Report from 1985

We might assume that phi­los­o­phy is an ivory tow­er dis­ci­pline that has lit­tle effect on the unlove­ly oper­a­tions of gov­ern­ment, dri­ven as they are by the con­cerns of mid­dle class wal­lets, upper class stock port­fo­lios, and the ever-present prob­lem of pover­ty. But we would be wrong. In times when pres­i­dents, cab­i­net mem­bers, or sen­a­tors have been thought­ful and well-read, the ideas of thinkers like Fran­cis Fukuya­ma, Leo Strauss, Jur­gen Haber­mas, and John Rawls—a favorite of the pre­vi­ous pres­i­dent—have exer­cised con­sid­er­able sway. Few philoso­phers have been as his­tor­i­cal­ly influ­en­tial as the Ger­man thinker Carl Schmitt, though in a thor­ough­ly destruc­tive way. Then there’s John Locke, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Thomas Hobbes, Aris­to­tle… even Socrates, who made him­self a thorn in the side of the pow­er­ful.

But when it comes to the most­ly French school of thinkers we asso­ciate with postmodernism—Michel Fou­cault, Roland Barthes, the Jacques Lacan and Der­ri­da, and many others—such influ­ence is far less direct. The work of these writ­ers has been often dis­missed as friv­o­lous and incon­se­quen­tial, speak­ing a lan­guage no one under­stands to out of touch coastal elites on the left edge of the spec­trum. Per­haps this is so in the Unit­ed States, where pow­er is often the­o­rized but rarely rad­i­cal­ly cri­tiqued in main­stream pub­li­ca­tions. But it has not been so in France. At least not accord­ing to the CIA, who close­ly mon­i­tored the effects of French phi­los­o­phy on the coun­try’s domes­tic and for­eign pol­i­cy dur­ing their long-run­ning cul­ture war against Com­mu­nism and “anti-Amer­i­can­ism,” and who, in 1985, com­piled a research paper to doc­u­ment their inves­ti­ga­tions. (See a sam­ple page above.)

Recent­ly made avail­able to the pub­lic in a “san­i­tized copy” through a Free­dom of Infor­ma­tion Act request, the doc­u­ment, titled “France: Defec­tion of the Left­ist Intel­lec­tu­als,” shows itself sur­pris­ing­ly approv­ing of the polit­i­cal direc­tion post-struc­tural­ist thinkers had tak­en. **************@*******va.edu&xsl=bio_long”>Villanova Uni­ver­si­ty pro­fes­sor of phi­los­o­phy and author of Rad­i­cal His­to­ry and the Pol­i­tics of Art Gabriel Rock­hill sum­ma­rizes the tenor of the agency’s assess­ment in the L.A. Review of Books’ Philo­soph­i­cal Salon:

…the under­cov­er cul­tur­al war­riors applaud what they see as a dou­ble move­ment that has con­tributed to the intel­li­gentsia shift­ing its crit­i­cal focus away from the US and toward the USSR. On the left, there was a grad­ual intel­lec­tu­al dis­af­fec­tion with Stal­in­ism and Marx­ism, a pro­gres­sive with­draw­al of rad­i­cal intel­lec­tu­als from pub­lic debate, and a the­o­ret­i­cal move away from social­ism and the social­ist par­ty. Fur­ther to the right, the ide­o­log­i­cal oppor­tunists referred to as the New Philoso­phers and the New Right intel­lec­tu­als launched a high-pro­file media smear cam­paign against Marx­ism.

The “spir­it of anti-Marx­ism and anti-Sovi­etism,” write the agents in their report, “will make it dif­fi­cult for any­one to mobi­lize sig­nif­i­cant intel­lec­tu­al oppo­si­tion to US poli­cies.” The influ­ence of “New Left intel­lec­tu­als” over French cul­ture and gov­ern­ment was such, they sur­mised, that “Pres­i­dent [Fran­cois] Mitterrand’s notable cool­ness toward Moscow derives, at least in part, from this per­va­sive atti­tude.”

These obser­va­tions stand in con­trast to the pre­vi­ous gen­er­a­tion of “left-lean­ing intel­lec­tu­als of the imme­di­ate post­war peri­od,” writes Rock­hill, who “had been open­ly crit­i­cal of US impe­ri­al­ism” and active­ly worked against the machi­na­tions of Amer­i­can oper­a­tives. Jean-Paul Sartre even played a role in “blow­ing the cov­er of the CIA sta­tion offi­cer in Paris and dozens of under­cov­er oper­a­tives,” and as a result was “close­ly mon­i­tored by the Agency and con­sid­ered a very seri­ous prob­lem.” By the mid-eight­ies, the Agency stat­ed, tri­umphant­ly, “there are no more Sartres, no more Gides.” The “last clique of Com­mu­nist savants,” they write, “came under fire from their for­mer pro­teges, but none had any stom­ach for fight­ing a rear­guard defense of Marx­ism.” As such, the late Cold War peri­od saw a “broad­er retreat from ide­ol­o­gy among intel­lec­tu­als of all polit­i­cal col­ors.”

A cer­tain weari­ness had tak­en hold, brought about by the inde­fen­si­ble total­i­tar­i­an abus­es of the “cult of Stal­in­ism” and the seem­ing inescapa­bil­i­ty of the Wash­ing­ton Con­sen­sus and the multi­na­tion­al cor­po­ratism engen­dered by it. By the time of Communism’s col­lapse, U.S. philoso­phers waxed apoc­a­lyp­tic, even as they cel­e­brat­ed the tri­umph of what Fran­cis Fukuya­ma called “lib­er­al democ­ra­cy” over social­ism. Fukuyama’s book The End of His­to­ry and the Last Man made its star­tling the­sis plain in the title. There would be no more rev­o­lu­tions. Har­vard thinker Samuel Hunt­ing­ton declared it the era of “endism,” amidst a rash of hyper­bol­ic argu­ments about “the end of art,” the “end of nature,” and so on. And, in France, in the years just pri­or to the fall of the Berlin wall, the pre­vi­ous­ly vig­or­ous philo­soph­i­cal left, the CIA believed, had “suc­cumbed to a kind of list­less­ness.”

While the agency cred­it­ed the dif­fi­dence of post-struc­tural­ist philoso­phers with sway­ing pop­u­lar opin­ion away from social­ism and “hard­en­ing pub­lic atti­tudes toward Marx­ism and the Sovi­et Union,” it also wrote that “their influ­ence appears to be wan­ing, and they are unlike­ly to have much direct impact on polit­i­cal affairs any time soon.” Is this true? If we take seri­ous­ly crit­ics of so-called “Iden­ti­ty Pol­i­tics,” the answer is a resound­ing No. As those who close­ly iden­ti­fy post­mod­ern phi­los­o­phy with sev­er­al recent waves of left­ist thought and activism might argue, the CIA was short­sight­ed in its con­clu­sions. Per­haps, bound to a Manichean view fos­tered by decades of Cold War maneu­ver­ing, they could not con­ceive of a pol­i­tics that opposed both Amer­i­can and Sovi­et empire at once.

And yet, the retreat from ide­ol­o­gy was hard­ly a retreat from pol­i­tics. We might say, over thir­ty years since this curi­ous research essay cir­cu­lat­ed among intel­li­gence gath­er­ers, that con­cepts like Foucault’s biopow­er or Derrida’s skep­ti­cal inter­ro­ga­tions of iden­ti­ty have more cur­ren­cy and rel­e­vance than ever, even if we don’t always under­stand, or read, their work. But while the agency may not have fore­seen the per­va­sive impact of post­mod­ern thought, they nev­er dis­missed it as obscu­ran­tist or incon­se­quen­tial sophistry. Their new­ly-released report, writes Rock­hill, “should be a cogent reminder that if some pre­sume that intel­lec­tu­als are pow­er­less, and that our polit­i­cal ori­en­ta­tions do not mat­ter, the orga­ni­za­tion that has been one of the most potent pow­er bro­kers in con­tem­po­rary world pol­i­tics does not agree.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

12 Mil­lion Declas­si­fied CIA Doc­u­ments Now Free Online: Secret Tun­nels, UFOs, Psy­chic Exper­i­ments & More

How the CIA Secret­ly Fund­ed Abstract Expres­sion­ism Dur­ing the Cold War

Michel Fou­cault: Free Lec­tures on Truth, Dis­course & The Self (UC Berke­ley, 1980–1983)

Intro­duc­tion to Polit­i­cal Phi­los­o­phy: A Free Yale Course

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

The First Bloomsday: See Dublin’s Literati Celebrate James Joyce’s Ulysses in Drunken Fashion (1954)

Here’s a fas­ci­nat­ing glimpse of the very first Blooms­day cel­e­bra­tion, filmed in Dublin in 1954.

The footage shows the great Irish comedic writer Bri­an O’Nolan, bet­ter known by his pen name Flann O’Brien, appear­ing very drunk as he sets off with two oth­er renowned post-war Irish writ­ers, Patrick Kavanagh and Antho­ny Cronin, and a cousin of James Joyce, a den­tist named Tom Joyce, on a pil­grim­age to vis­it the sites in James Joyce’s epic nov­el Ulysses.

The footage was tak­en by John Ryan, an artist, pub­lish­er and pub own­er who orga­nized the event. The idea was to retrace the steps of Leopold Bloom and oth­er char­ac­ters from the nov­el, but as Peter Costel­lo and Peter van de Kamp explain in this humor­ous pas­sage from their book, Flann O’Brien: An Illus­trat­ed Biog­ra­phy, things began to go awry right from the start:

The date was 16 June, 1954, and though it was only mid-morn­ing, Bri­an O’Nolan was already drunk.

This day was the fifti­eth anniver­sary of Mr. Leopold Bloom’s wan­der­ings through Dublin, which James Joyce had immor­talised in Ulysses.

To mark this occa­sion a small group of Dublin literati had gath­ered at the Sandy­cove home of Michael Scott, a well-known archi­tect, just below the Martel­lo tow­er in which the open­ing scene of Joyce’s nov­el is set. They planned to trav­el round the city through the day, vis­it­ing in turn the scenes of the nov­el, end­ing at night in what had once been the broth­el quar­ter of the city, the area which Joyce had called Night­town.

Sad­ly, no-one expect­ed O’Nolan to be sober. By rep­u­ta­tion, if not by sight, every­one in Dublin knew Bri­an O’Nolan, oth­er­wise Myles na Gopaleen, the writer of the Cruiskeen Lawn col­umn in the Irish Times. A few knew that under the name of Flann O’Brien, he had writ­ten in his youth a now near­ly for­got­ten nov­el, At Swim-Two-Birds. See­ing him about the city, many must have won­dered how a man with such extreme drink­ing habits, even for the city of Dublin, could have sus­tained a career as a writer.

As was his cus­tom, he had been drink­ing that morn­ing in the pubs around the Cat­tle Mar­ket, where cus­tomers, sup­pos­ed­ly about their law­ful busi­ness, would be served from 7:30 in the morn­ing. Now retired from the Civ­il Ser­vice, on grounds of “ill-health”, he was earn­ing his liv­ing as a free-lance jour­nal­ist, writ­ing not only for the Irish Times, but for oth­er papers and mag­a­zines under sev­er­al pen-names. He need­ed to write for mon­ey as his pen­sion was a tiny one. But this left lit­tle time for more cre­ative work. In fact, O’Nolan no longer felt the urge to write oth­er nov­els.

The rest of the par­ty, that first Blooms­day, was made up of the poet Patrick Kavanagh, the young crit­ic Antho­ny Cronin, a den­tist named Tom Joyce, who as Joyce’s cousin rep­re­sent­ed the fam­i­ly inter­est, and John Ryan, the painter and busi­ness­man who owned and edit­ed the lit­er­ary mag­a­zine Envoy. The idea of the Blooms­day cel­e­bra­tion had been Ryan’s, grow­ing nat­u­ral­ly out of a spe­cial Joyce issue of his mag­a­zine, for which O’Nolan had been guest edi­tor.

Ryan had engaged two horse drawn cabs, of the old fash­ioned kind, which in Ulysses Mr. Bloom and his friends dri­ve to poor Pad­dy Dig­nam’s funer­al. The par­ty were assigned roles from the nov­el. Cronin stood in for Stephen Dedalus, O’Nolan for his father, Simon Dedalus, John Ryan for the jour­nal­ist Mar­tin Cun­ning­ham, and A.J. Lev­en­thal, the Reg­is­trar of Trin­i­ty Col­lege, being Jew­ish, was recruit­ed to fill (unkown to him­self accord­ing to John Ryan) the role of Leopold Bloom.

Kavanagh and O’Nolan began the day by decid­ing they must climb up to the Martel­lo tow­er itself, which stood on a gran­ite shoul­der behind the house. As Cronin recalls, Kavanagh hoist­ed him­self up the steep slope above O’Nolan, who snarled in anger and laid hold of his ankle. Kavanagh roared, and lashed out with his foot. Fear­ful that O’Nolan would be kicked in the face by the poet­’s enor­mous farmer’s boot, the oth­ers has­tened to res­cue and restrain the rivals.

With some dif­fi­cul­ty O’Nolan was stuffed into one of the cabs by Cronin and the oth­ers. Then they were off, along the seafront of Dublin Bay, and into the city.

In pubs along the way an enor­mous amount of alco­hol was con­sumed, so much so that on Sandy­mount Strand they had to relieve them­selves as Stephen Dedalus does in Ulysses. Tom Joyce and Cronin sang the sen­ti­men­tal songs of Tom Moore which Joyce had loved, such as Silent, O Moyle. They stopped in Irish­town to lis­ten to the run­ning of the Ascot Gold Cup on a radio in a bet­ting shop, but even­tu­al­ly they arrived in Duke Street in the city cen­tre, and the Bai­ley, which John Ryan then ran as a lit­er­ary pub.

They went no fur­ther. Once there, anoth­er drink seemed more attrac­tive than a long tour of Joycean slums, and the siren call of the long van­ished plea­sures of Night­town.

 The First Bloomsday 1954

Cel­e­brants of the first Blooms­day pause for a pho­to in Sandy­mount, Dublin on the morn­ing of June 16, 1954. From left are John Ryan, Antho­ny Cronin, Bri­an O’Nolan (a.k.a. Flann O’Brien), Patrick Kavanagh and Tom Joyce, cousin of James Joyce.

Note: This post orig­i­nal­ly appeared on our site in 2013–likely before many of you start­ed to fre­quent our site. So it’s time to bring it back.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Vladimir Nabokov Cre­ates a Hand-Drawn Map of James Joyce’s Ulysses

On Blooms­day, Hear James Joyce Read From his Epic Ulysses, 1924

Stephen Fry Explains His Love for James Joyce’s Ulysses

Hen­ri Matisse Illus­trates 1935 Edi­tion of James Joyce’s Ulysses

James Joyce, With His Eye­sight Fail­ing, Draws a Sketch of Leopold Bloom (1926)

How to Build Leonardo da Vinci’s Ingenious Self-Supporting Bridge: Renaissance Innovations You Can Still Enjoy Today

Leonar­do da Vin­ci, the most accom­plished exam­ple of the poly­math­ic, artist-engi­neer “Renais­sance man,” came up with an aston­ish­ing num­ber of inven­tions great and small in the late 15th and ear­ly 16th cen­tu­ry, from the heli­copter to the musi­cal vio­la organ­ista, the tank to the auto­mat­ed bob­bin winder. Even the devices he was born too late to invent, he improved: humans had crossed the hum­ble bridge, for instance, for count­less cen­turies, but then Leonar­do cre­at­ed a new, self-sup­port­ing vari­ety whose design, as fol­lowed by a kid and his dad in the video above, still impress­es today.

“With a series of wood­en poles and beams, ‘Stick-Boy’ shows his Dad how to build Leonar­do da Vinci‘s self-sup­port­ing arch bridge, also known as the emer­gency bridge,” say the descrip­tion by Rion Nakaya at The Kid Should See This. “No nails, screws, rope, glues, notch­es, or oth­er fas­ten­ers are hold­ing the bridge in place… just fric­tion and grav­i­ty.”

Clear­ly it works, but how? Accord­ing to a post at the blog ArchiS­crip­tor on self-sup­port­ing struc­tures, all such bridges, from Leonar­do’s on down, real­ly do rely on only those two forces. “Notch­es in the mem­bers make it eas­i­er to con­struct, but strict­ly speak­ing aren’t nec­es­sary as long as there is some fric­tion. Grav­i­ty will do the rest.”

Leonar­do, the post con­tin­ues, “explored two forms of the struc­ture – a bridge and a dome. His work was com­mis­sioned by the Bor­gia fam­i­ly, with the man­date to design light and strong struc­tures which could be built and tak­en down quick­ly. This was to aid them in their con­stant strug­gle for pow­er with the Medici fam­i­ly in Renais­sance Italy.” The site of the Leonardo3 Muse­um adds, “we do not know whether this bridge was ever put to prac­ti­cal use, but it is not hard to believe that such a mod­u­lar con­struc­tion, extreme­ly easy to trans­port and to assem­ble, must have met with great favor from the Renais­sance lords who were always on the look­out for new tech­nolo­gies to put to mil­i­tary use.”

Leonar­do him­self called this “the bridge of safe­ty,” and it counts as only one of the inge­nious bridges he designed in his life­time. For the Duke Sforza he also invent­ed sev­er­al oth­ers includ­ing a revolv­ing bridge which, accord­ing to Leonar­do da Vin­ci Inven­tions, “could be quick­ly packed up and trans­port­ed for use by armies on the move to pass over bod­ies of water,” could “swing across a stream or moat and set down on the oth­er side so that sol­diers could pass with lit­tle trou­ble,” and “incor­po­rat­ed a rope-and-pul­ley sys­tem for both quick employ­ment and easy trans­port.” All use­ful tools indeed for those who once sought mil­i­tary dom­i­nance in Italy, but even more ben­e­fi­cial as inspi­ra­tion for the Renais­sance boys and girls of the 21st cen­tu­ry.

via The Kid Should See This

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Leonar­do Da Vinci’s To Do List (Cir­ca 1490) Is Much Cool­er Than Yours

Leonar­do da Vin­ci Draws Designs of Future War Machines: Tanks, Machine Guns & More

Watch Leonar­do da Vinci’s Musi­cal Inven­tion, the Vio­la Organ­ista, Being Played for the Very First Time

The Anatom­i­cal Draw­ings of Renais­sance Man, Leonar­do da Vin­ci

Leonar­do da Vinci’s Hand­writ­ten Resume (1482)

An Ani­mat­ed His­to­ry Of Avi­a­tion: From da Vinci’s Sketch­es to Apol­lo 11

Did Leonar­do da Vin­ci Paint a First Mona Lisa Before The Mona Lisa?

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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