The Birth of London’s 1950s Bohemian Coffee Bars Documented in a Vintage 1959 Newsreel

I live in Seoul, by some mea­sures the most cof­fee shop-sat­u­rat­ed city in the world. But mod­ern cof­fee life here (which I recent­ly wrote about for the Los Ange­les Review of Books) only real­ly devel­oped after Star­bucks came to town around the turn of the 21st cen­tu­ry. We’ve now got more Star­bucks loca­tions per capi­ta than any­where else, and even so, the home­grown Kore­an chains well out­num­ber those under the green mer­maid. To under­stand how the cof­fee-house cul­ture we know across the world today took its shape, we have to look back to Lon­don in the late 1950s, specif­i­cal­ly as cap­tured in the Look at Life news­reel on the city’s bohemi­an cof­fee house boom just above.

“Cof­fee is big busi­ness,” says its nar­ra­tor, over a mon­tage of neon signs adver­tis­ing places like The Cof­fee House, Las Vegas Cof­fee Bar, Heav­en & HELL Cof­fee Lounge, and La Roca. “The cof­fee bar boom in Britain began in 1952, when the first espres­so machine arrived from Italy and was set up here, in Lon­don’s Soho.” The city’s many entre­pre­neurs vig­or­ous­ly seized the oppor­tu­ni­ty — maybe too vig­or­ous­ly, since “for every three cof­fee bars that opened up, two closed down.” They had­n’t planned on a few dif­fer­ent fac­tors, includ­ing over­head high enough that “if a char­ac­ter sits for half an hour over one cup of cof­fee, his share of the rent, heat, light, and ser­vice mount to the point where the man­age­ment is pay­ing him.”

They should’ve count­ed them­selves lucky that the likes of me and my gen­er­a­tion weren’t alive back then to, on a sim­i­lar­ly sin­gle cof­fee, spend half the day typ­ing on our lap­tops. But Lon­don’s mid­cen­tu­ry cof­fee hous­es soon learned to diver­si­fy, offer­ing Look at Life plenty–in its vivid col­ors and with its broad sense of humor–of life to look at: we see cof­fee bars hop­ping with live music and those who dance to it; juke­box cof­fee bars geared toward pom­padoured hip­sters; the film indus­try-beloved cof­fee bar in which T.S. Eliot once wrote the immor­tal line, “I have mea­sured out my life with cof­fee spoons”; an “invis­i­ble cof­fee house” behind whose false news­stand front “curi­ous char­ac­ters con­gre­gate”; the Moka, which William S. Bur­roughs once shut down with his cut-up tech­niques; and even the famous Le Macabre, dec­o­rat­ed with count­less skele­tal memen­tos mori.

The news­reel also finds its way to a cof­fee shop estab­lished by a news­pa­per where “uni­ver­si­ty stu­dents and oth­er assort­ed eggheads meet to put the world right — or more often left,” which reminds me of Guardian Cof­fee, a pop-up cof­fee house in a ship­ping-con­tain­er com­plex in Lon­don’s Shored­itch (in some sense, the Soho of the 21st cen­tu­ry) co-run by the epony­mous news­pa­per, which I vis­it­ed on my last trip to Eng­land. The Guardian Cof­fee exper­i­ment has since end­ed, but the Guardian has retained its inter­est in the bev­er­age itself, as evi­denced by recent arti­cles like Rosie Spinks’ “The Caf­feine Curse: Why Cof­fee Shops Have Always Sig­naled Urban Change.”

“As the cof­fee shop has become a byword for what every­one hates about urban change and gen­tri­fi­ca­tion – first come the cre­atives and their cof­fee shops, then the young pro­fes­sion­als, then the lux­u­ry high-ris­es and cor­po­rate chains that push out orig­i­nal res­i­dents – it’s worth ask­ing if that charge is fair,” Spinks writes. “As the func­tion of the cof­fee house in Lon­don has evolved over time, was its ear­ly iter­a­tion so rad­i­cal­ly dif­fer­ent than the ones many of us type and sip away in today?” And what­ev­er form they take, cof­fee hous­es remain, as Look at Life calls them, “bright — or dim — fan­ci­ful, imag­i­na­tive new addi­tions to the British scene.” Or the Amer­i­can scene, or the Kore­an scene, or indeed the glob­al scene.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Curi­ous Sto­ry of London’s First Cof­fee­hous­es (1650–1675)

“The Vertue of the COFFEE Drink”: London’s First Cafe Cre­ates Ad for Cof­fee in the 1650s

J.S. Bach’s Com­ic Opera, “The Cof­fee Can­ta­ta,” Sings the Prais­es of the Great Stim­u­lat­ing Drink (1735)

The His­to­ry of Cof­fee and How It Trans­formed Our World

Black Cof­fee: Doc­u­men­tary Cov­ers the His­to­ry, Pol­i­tics & Eco­nom­ics of the “Most Wide­ly Tak­en Legal Drug”

How William S. Bur­roughs Used the Cut-Up Tech­nique to Shut Down London’s First Espres­so Bar (1972)

Hip­sters Order­ing Cof­fee

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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.

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

precursor to machine gun

We think of Leonar­do da Vin­ci as one of the great human­ists, a thinker and cre­ator whose achieve­ments spanned the realms of art, archi­tec­ture, nat­ur­al sci­ence, engi­neer­ing, and let­ters. We less often think of him as an inno­va­tor of the tools of as destruc­tive a prac­tice as war, but a true poly­math — and the life of Leonar­do more or less defines that con­cept — knows no bound­aries. The web­site Leonar­do da Vin­ci Inven­tions lists among the machines he came up with an armored car (“pre­cur­sor to the mod­ern tank”), an 86-foot cross­bow, and a triple bar­rel can­non (at a time when even gun­pow­der itself had­n’t yet attained world­wide use).

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Many of Leonar­do’s inven­tions, no mat­ter how thor­ough­ly he dia­grammed their designs and mechan­ics in his note­books, nev­er got out of the realm of the the­o­ret­i­cal in his life­time — and some remain machines of the imag­i­na­tion. But as Nick Squires report­ed in the Tele­graph a few years ago, a late 15th-cen­tu­ry can­non dug up in Croa­t­ia “bears a strik­ing resem­blance to sketch­es drawn by the Renais­sance inven­tor, notably in his Codex Atlanti­cus — the largest col­lec­tion of his draw­ings and writ­ing. Mount­ed on a wood­en car­riage and wheels, it would have allowed a much more rapid rate of fire than tra­di­tion­al sin­gle-bar­reled guns — in a pre­cur­sor to mod­ern day machine guns.”

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Italian-renaissance-art.com offers more detail on all these Leonar­do-designed weapons, and the his­tor­i­cal con­text which drove him to work on them:

He was a man of his time and the need for mil­i­tary engi­neers pro­vid­ed him with employ­ment, trav­el oppor­tu­ni­ties, and the chance to con­tin­ue his sci­en­tif­ic work unhin­dered. Renais­sance Italy was a col­lec­tion of inde­pen­dent city states who became engaged in inces­sant war­fare with each oth­er.

“This pro­vid­ed a mar­ket for the tech­ni­cal­ly advanced weapons need­ed to gain mil­i­tary advan­tage over the ene­my” — and an oppor­tu­ni­ty for Leonar­do to work out his ideas for “new weapon­ry, bridg­ing, bom­bard­ing machines, trench drain­ing,” and more. Leonar­do’s work dur­ing this peri­od includ­ed 15th-cen­tu­ry blue­prints for “an armored vehi­cle made from wood and oper­at­ed by eight men” turn­ing cranks, an antiq­ui­ty-inspired “scythed char­i­ot,” breech-load­ing and water-cooled guns not entire­ly dif­fer­ent in con­cept from the steam can­nons used in the World War II, and “a repeat­ing ‘machine gun’ oper­at­ed by a man-pow­ered tread­mill.”

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You can see a real-life exam­ple of Leonar­do’s leaf-spring cat­a­pult built by a Soci­ety for Cre­ative Anachro­nism mem­ber here. But if you try to fol­low the instruc­tions and assem­ble his oth­er inge­nious mil­i­tary devices, pre­pare for dis­ap­point­ment. The Tele­graph’s Tom Leonard wrote up an ear­ly-2000s BBC doc­u­men­tary that claimed this Renais­sance Man’s Renais­sance Man “insert­ed a series of delib­er­ate flaws into his inven­tions to make sure that they could nev­er be used,” for instance, “when the tank, a tor­toise-like con­trap­tion, was test­ed by the Army, it imme­di­ate­ly became clear that its gears had been set against each oth­er.”

Leonar­do pos­si­bly crip­pled his own designs in order to serve the func­tion of absent “patent laws to pro­tect him from hav­ing his designs copied,” and pos­si­bly because he “was a paci­fist who was aware that his war­lord mas­ters might try to find mil­i­tary uses for his inven­tions.” Either way, at least he died a few hun­dred years too ear­ly to wit­ness the First World War, in which tanks, machine guns, and all the rest of it turned into sure­ly more hor­ri­fy­ing a spec­ta­cle than all the bat­tles of Renais­sance Italy put togeth­er.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load the Sub­lime Anato­my Draw­ings of Leonar­do da Vin­ci: Avail­able Online, or in a Great iPad App

Orig­i­nal Por­trait of the Mona Lisa Found Beneath the Paint Lay­ers of da Vinci’s Mas­ter­piece

Leonar­do da Vinci’s Hand­writ­ten Resume (1482)

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

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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 Met Digitally Restores the Colors of an Ancient Egyptian Temple, Using Projection Mapping Technology

Thanks to the tire­less efforts of archae­ol­o­gists, we have a pret­ty clear idea of what much of the ancient world looked like, at least as far as the clothes peo­ple wore and the struc­tures in and around which they spent their days. But we sel­dom imag­ine these lives among the ruins-before-they-became-ruins in col­or, despite hav­ing read in the his­to­ry books that some ancient builders and artists cre­at­ed a col­or­ful world indeed, espe­cial­ly when a spe­cial archi­tec­tur­al occa­sion like an Egypt­ian tem­ple called for it.

“As depict­ed in pop­u­lar cul­ture, ancient Egypt is awash with the col­or beige,” writes the New York Times’ Joshua Barone. “A trip to the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art would seem to reflect that notion: The Tem­ple of Den­dur, with its weath­er­worn sand­stone, could fit in nat­u­ral­ly with the earth tones of Aida or The Mum­my.

But Egyp­tol­o­gists know that this tem­ple, like many oth­ers of the ancient world, was paint­ed with vivid col­ors and pat­terns. In ‘Col­or the Tem­ple,’ a mar­riage of research and pro­jec­tion-map­ping tech­nol­o­gy, vis­i­tors to the Met can now glimpse what the Tem­ple of Den­dur may have looked like in its orig­i­nal, poly­chro­mat­ic form more than 2,000 years ago.”

temple in color

Image via @Burning_Luke

While the rav­ages of time haven’t destroyed the var­i­ous scenes carved into the tem­ple’s walls, they’ve long made it next to impos­si­ble for schol­ars to get an idea of what col­ors their cre­ators paint­ed them. Orig­i­nal­ly locat­ed on the banks of the Nile, the tem­ple endured cen­tu­ry after cen­tu­ry of flood­ing (by the 1920s, almost nine months out of the year) which thor­ough­ly washed away the sur­face of the images. But after some seri­ous his­tor­i­cal research, includ­ing the con­sul­ta­tion of a 1906 sur­vey by Egyp­tol­o­gist Ayl­ward M. Black­man and the Napoleon­ic Descrip­tion de l’E­gypte, the Met’s team has come up with a pret­ty plau­si­ble idea of what the scene on the tem­ple’s south wall, in which Emper­or Cae­sar Augus­tus in Pharaoh garb presents wine to the deities Hathor and Horus, looked like in full col­or.

But it would hard­ly do to buy a few buck­ets from Sher­win-Williams and sim­ply fill the wall in. Instead, the Met has used a much more advanced tech­nol­o­gy called dig­i­tal pro­jec­tion map­ping (also known, more Wired-ly, as “spa­tial aug­ment­ed real­i­ty”) to restore the Tem­ple of Den­dur’s col­ors with light. You can get a sense of the result in the two videos at the top of the post, shot dur­ing the Col­or the Tem­ple exhi­bi­tion which ran through March 19.

For a clos­er look into the process, have a look at the video just above, cre­at­ed by Maria Paula Saba, who worked on the project. As you can see, the use of light rather than paint allows for the pos­si­bil­i­ty of a vari­ety of dif­fer­ent col­or schemes, all of them quite pos­si­bly what the ancient Egyp­tians saw when they passed by, all of them fit­ting right in to the details and con­tours the ancient Egypt­ian artists put there — a thrill impos­si­ble to over­state for those of us who grew up with ancient-Egypt col­or­ing books.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

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.)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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.

Florence Nightingale Saved Lives by Creating Revolutionary Visualizations of Statistics (1855)

I’ve long count­ed myself as a fan of Edward Tufte, the pre­em­i­nent liv­ing expert on the visu­al dis­play of quan­ti­ta­tive infor­ma­tion. I like to think this puts me in the com­pa­ny of Flo­rence Nightin­gale, founder of mod­ern nurs­ing as well as a pro­lif­ic writer and still today a house­hold name. Hav­ing lived in the Vic­to­ri­an era, she of course nev­er got to enjoy the work of Tufte him­self, though her own zeal for data and sta­tis­tics, in a time that val­ued such things less than ours, made her, in some sense, a Tufte of her day: the first female mem­ber of the Roy­al Sta­tis­ti­cal Soci­ety and an hon­orary mem­ber of the Amer­i­can Sta­tis­ti­cal Asso­ci­a­tion. The video above, an out­take from Hans Rosling’s The Joy of Stats, offers a brief intro­duc­tion to the sta­tis­ti­cal side of Nightin­gale’s career, and the impor­tant role data visu­al­iza­tion played in her mis­sion to save lives.

“When Flo­rence Nightin­gale arrived at a British hos­pi­tal in Turkey dur­ing the Crimean War, she found a night­mare of mis­ery and chaos,” writes Sci­ence News’ Julie Rehmey­er. “By the time Nightin­gale left Turkey after the war end­ed in July 1856, the hos­pi­tals were well-run and effi­cient, with mor­tal­i­ty rates no greater than civil­ian hos­pi­tals in Eng­land.”

But feel­ing great regret over all the lives lost there to pre­ventable dis­ease, she went on to save even more of them by bring­ing num­bers into play. She specif­i­cal­ly com­piled “vast tables of sta­tis­tics about how many peo­ple had died, where and why. Many of her find­ings shocked her. For exam­ple, she dis­cov­ered that in peace­time, sol­diers in Eng­land died at twice the rate of civil­ians — even though they were young men in their primes.”

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Nightin­gale’s most influ­en­tial pre­sen­ta­tion of her data, which she called a “cox­comb,” appears just above. This Is Sta­tis­tics describes “Dia­gram of the Caus­es of Mor­tal­i­ty in the Army in the East” as “sim­i­lar to a pie chart, but more intri­cate. In a pie chart the size of the ‘slices’ rep­re­sent a pro­por­tion of data, while in a cox­comb the length, which the slice extends radi­al­ly from the cen­ter-point, rep­re­sents the first lay­er of data.” Her famous chart “was divid­ed even­ly into 12 slices rep­re­sent­ing months of the year, with the shad­ed area of each month’s slice pro­por­tion­al to the death rate that month. Her col­or-cod­ed shad­ing indi­cat­ed the cause of death in each area of the dia­gram.” She stat­ed the goal of her visu­al­iza­tion clear­ly: “to affect thro’ the Eyes what we fail to con­vey to the pub­lic through their word-proof ears.”

We all try to do the very same thing when we present infor­ma­tion today, though few of us—even armed with a degree of num­ber-crunch­ing and graph­ic design pow­ers that would have seemed mag­i­cal to Nightin­gale and her contemporaries—achieve the kind of results she did. She gal­va­nized sys­temic change in hos­pi­tal design and oper­a­tion as well as prompt­ed a rev­o­lu­tion in san­i­ta­tion which increased Britain’s aver­age nation­al life expectan­cy by 20 years—something to bear in mind when we start to get big ideas about how our Pow­er­point slide shows will change the world.

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!

via @pourmecoffee

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Art of Data Visu­al­iza­tion: How to Tell Com­plex Sto­ries Through Smart Design

Slick Data Visu­al­iza­tion Reveals Sci­en­tif­ic Col­lab­o­ra­tions Tak­ing Place Around the Globe

In Under Three Min­utes, Hans Rosling Visu­al­izes the Incred­i­ble Progress of the “Devel­op­ing World”

Watch a Cool and Creepy Visu­al­iza­tion of U.S. Births & Deaths in Real-Time

Sta­tis­tics Explained Through Mod­ern Dance: A New Way of Teach­ing a Tough Sub­ject

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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 Do People Talk Funny in Old Movies?, or The Origin of the Mid-Atlantic Accent

“The first thing to notice about movies made in the clas­sic Hol­ly­wood stu­dio era,” writes New York­er film crit­ic Richard Brody, “from the twen­ties through the fifties, is the still­ness of the actors — not a sta­t­ic, micro­phone-bound stand-and-deliv­er the­atri­cal­i­ty but a lack of fid­geti­ness even while in motion, a self-mas­tery that pre­cludes uncon­trolled or inci­den­tal ges­tures,” an act­ing style reflec­tive of the fact, Brody sus­pects, that “Amer­i­can peo­ple of the era real­ly were more tight­ly con­trolled, more repressed by the gen­er­al expec­ta­tion of pub­lic deco­rum and expres­sive restraint.”

This has made it tough for film­mak­ers (in the case of Brody’s piece, Paul Thomas Ander­son mak­ing The Mas­ter, who pulled it off more con­vinc­ing­ly than any­one else in recent mem­o­ry) who want to do prop­er peri­od pieces set in those days: “even if styl­ists man­age to get the cloth­ing right, actors today — peo­ple today — have been raised by and large to let their emo­tions gov­ern their behav­ior,” and cur­rent actors “can hard­ly rep­re­sent the past with­out invest­ing it with the atti­tudes of our own day, which is why most new peri­od pieces seem either thin or unin­ten­tion­al­ly iron­ic.”

They’d have an espe­cial­ly for­mi­da­ble task set out for them in speak­ing, with­out any appar­ent irony, in the mid-atlantic accent, just as much a fix­ture of clas­sic Hol­ly­wood act­ing as that phys­i­cal self-mas­tery. Even if you haven’t heard its name, you’ve heard the accent, which gets exam­ined in the How­Stuff­Works video at the top of the post “Why Do Peo­ple in Old Movies Talk Weird?” The “old-timey voice” you hear in news­reels from movies like His Girl Fri­day (watch it online here) and fig­ures like Katharine Hep­burn, Franklin D. Roo­sevelt, George Plimp­ton, and William F. Buck­ley, his­tor­i­cal­ly “the hall­mark of aris­to­crat­ic Amer­i­ca,” acquired, usu­al­ly in New Eng­land board­ing schools, as “an inter­na­tion­al norm for com­mu­ni­ca­tion.”

The video points out its sig­nal qual­i­ties, from its “qua­si-British ele­ments” like a soft­en­ing of Rs to its “empha­sis on clipped, sharped Ts,” result­ing in a speech pat­tern that “isn’t com­plete­ly British, not com­plete­ly Amer­i­can” — one we can only place, in oth­er words, some­where in the mid-Atlantic ocean. The accent emerged as an opti­mal man­ner of speak­ing in “the ear­ly days of radio” when speak­ers could­n’t repro­duce bass vary well, and it van­ished not long after the Sec­ond World War, when teach­ers stopped pass­ing it along to their stu­dents. Has the time has come for the true iro­nists among us to bring it back?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Speech Accent Archive: The Eng­lish Accents of Peo­ple Who Speak 341 Dif­fer­ent Lan­guages

The Lin­guis­tics Behind Kevin Spacey’s South­ern Accent in House of Cards: A Quick Primer

Watch Meryl Streep Have Fun with Accents: Bronx, Pol­ish, Irish, Aus­tralian, Yid­dish & More

A Brief Tour of British Accents: 14 Ways to Speak Eng­lish in 84 Sec­onds

Peter Sell­ers Presents The Com­plete Guide To Accents of The British Isles

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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.

 

A Curated Collection of Vintage Japanese Magazine Covers (1913–46)

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I just last week returned from a vis­it to Tokyo, where I did what I always do there: shop for mag­a­zines. Despite not pay­ing the mag­a­zine shelves a whole lot of atten­tion in Korea, where I live, and prac­ti­cal­ly none at all in Amer­i­ca, where I’m from, I can’t resist lin­ger­ing for hours over the ones in Japan, a coun­try whose print pub­lish­ing indus­try seems much stronger than that of any oth­er, and whose pub­li­ca­tions show­case the cul­ture’s for­mi­da­ble design sen­si­bil­i­ty that has only grown more com­pelling over the cen­turies.

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Will Schofield, who runs the inter­na­tion­al and his­tor­i­cal book design blog 50 Watts, knows this, and he also knows that Japan­ese design has been mak­ing mag­a­zine cov­ers inter­est­ing since Japan first had mag­a­zines to cov­er. The images here come from two of his posts, Extra­or­di­nary ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry mag­a­zine cov­ers from Japan and 25 Vin­tage Mag­a­zine Cov­ers from Japan. The ear­li­er ones, which he describes as a mix­ture of “charm­ing chil­dren’s cov­ers with the creepy mod­ernist cov­ers,” come from Book­cov­er Design in Japan 1910s-40s. “Pub­lished in 2005 by PIE Books,” writes Schofield, “this incred­i­ble book is already out-of-print and becom­ing hard to find (it was actu­al­ly hard for me to find and I spend hours per day search­ing for rare books).”

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As for the more recent post, he writes that it “began as a com­pi­la­tion of mag­a­zine cov­ers from the web­site of a Japan­ese anti­quar­i­an deal­er. I dug through all 1500 or so images and saved (like a good lit­tle dig­i­tal hoard­er) hun­dreds to fea­ture, though only 8 made the first cut.”

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Both posts togeth­er present a curat­ed col­lec­tion of near­ly 50 most­ly pre­war Japan­ese mag­a­zine cov­ers, still vivid and of a decid­ed­ly high artis­tic stan­dards these 70 to 103 years lat­er. On my own shop­ping trip, I picked up an issue of Free & Easy, my favorite men’s style mag­a­zine pub­lished any­where — its final issue, inci­den­tal­ly, and one whose cov­er, despite depict­ing no less an Amer­i­can icon than Dick Tra­cy, admirably car­ries this tra­di­tion of Japan­ese mag­a­zine art one step fur­ther.

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For more vin­tage Japan­ese mag­a­zine cov­ers, see: Extra­or­di­nary ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry mag­a­zine cov­ers from Japan and 25 Vin­tage Mag­a­zine Cov­ers from Japan.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Adver­tise­ments from Japan’s Gold­en Age of Art Deco

Glo­ri­ous Ear­ly 20th-Cen­tu­ry Japan­ese Ads for Beer, Smokes & Sake (1902–1954)

Vin­tage 1930s Japan­ese Posters Artis­ti­cal­ly Mar­ket the Won­ders of Trav­el

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

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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 only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing,” a Quote Falsely Attributed to Edmund Burke

edmund burke

“The only thing nec­es­sary for the tri­umph of evil is for good men to do noth­ing.” It’s a quote rou­tine­ly attrib­uted to Edmund Burke. But it turns out false­ly so. Appar­ent­ly, he nev­er uttered these words. At best, the essence of the quote can be traced back to the util­i­tar­i­an philoso­pher John Stu­art Mill, who deliv­ered an 1867 inau­gur­al address at the Uni­ver­si­ty of St. Andrews and stat­ed: “Let not any one paci­fy his con­science by the delu­sion that he can do no harm if he takes no part, and forms no opin­ion. Bad men need noth­ing more to com­pass their ends, than that good men should look on and do noth­ing. He is not a good man who, with­out a protest, allows wrong to be com­mit­ted in his name, and with the means which he helps to sup­ply, because he will not trou­ble him­self to use his mind on the sub­ject.”

If you came to this page look­ing for Burke to help sup­port ideas of social upheaval, we’d sug­gest watch­ing the video below, or bet­ter yet read­ing Reflec­tions on the Rev­o­lu­tion in France, a fun­da­men­tal text in the canon of con­ser­v­a­tive lit­er­a­ture where Burke cau­tioned against abrupt or vio­lent social change.

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:

1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties

A His­to­ry of Ideas: Ani­mat­ed Videos Explain The­o­ries of Simone de Beau­voir, Edmund Burke & Oth­er Philoso­phers

What Books Did Wun­derkind Philoso­pher J.S. Mill Read Between Ages 3 and 7?: Plato’s Apol­o­gy (in Ancient Greek), Cer­vantes’ Don Quixote & Much More

Jere­my Bentham’s Mum­mi­fied Body Is Still on Display–Much Like Oth­er Aging British Rock Stars

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Download the Complete Archive of Oz, “the Most Controversial Magazine of the 60s,” Featuring R. Crumb, Germaine Greer & More

OZ4

“If you remem­ber the six­ties,” goes the famous and var­i­ous­ly attrib­uted quo­ta­tion, “you weren’t real­ly there.” And, psy­cho­log­i­cal after-effects of first-hand expo­sure to that era aside, increas­ing­ly many of us weren’t born any­where near in time to take part.

Those of us from the wrong place or the wrong time have had to draw what under­stand­ing of the six­ties we could from that much-mythol­o­gized peri­od’s music and movies, as well as the cloudy reflec­tions of those who lived through it (or claimed to). But now we can get a much more direct sense through the com­plete dig­i­tal archives of Oz, some­times called the most con­tro­ver­sial mag­a­zine of the six­ties.

oz dylan

In The Guardian, Chi­tra Ramaswamy describes the Lon­don mag­a­zine as “the icon – and the enfant ter­ri­ble – of the under­ground press. Pro­duced in a base­ment flat off Not­ting Hill Gate, Oz was soon renowned for psy­che­del­ic cov­ers by pop artist Mar­tin Sharp, car­toons by Robert Crumb, rad­i­cal fem­i­nist man­i­festos by Ger­maine Greer, and any­thing else that would send the estab­lish­ment apoplec­tic. By August 1971, it had been the sub­ject of the longest obscen­i­ty tri­al in British his­to­ry. It doesn’t get more 60s than that.” Even its print run, which began in 1967 and end­ed in 1973, per­fect­ly brack­ets the peri­od peo­ple real­ly talk about when they talk about the six­ties.

OZ2

The online archive has gone up at the web site of the Uni­ver­si­ty of Wol­lon­gong, who two years ago put up a sim­i­lar dig­i­tal col­lec­tion of all the issues of Oz’s epony­mous satir­i­cal pre­de­ces­sor pro­duced in Syd­ney. “Please be advised,” notes the front page, “this col­lec­tion has been made avail­able due to its his­tor­i­cal and research impor­tance. It con­tains explic­it lan­guage and images that reflect atti­tudes of the era in which the mate­r­i­al was orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished, and that some view­ers may find con­fronting.” And while Oz today would­n’t like­ly get into the kind of deep and high-pro­file legal trou­ble it did back then — in addi­tion to the famous 1971 tri­al for the Lon­don ver­sion, the Syd­ney one got hit with two obscen­i­ty charges dur­ing the pre­vi­ous decade — the sheer trans­gres­sive zeal on dis­play all over the mag­a­zine’s pages in its hey­day still impress­es.

OZ3

“Fifty years lat­er, it’s impor­tant as a cap­sule of the times, but also as a work of art,” says Michael Organ, a library man­ag­er at the uni­ver­si­ty, in the Guardian arti­cle. “Oz is a record of the cul­tur­al rev­o­lu­tion. Many of the issues it raised, such as the envi­ron­ment, sex­u­al­i­ty and drug use, are no longer con­tentious. In fact, they have now become main­stream.”

Oz Crumb Cartoon

All this goes for the delib­er­ate­ly provoca­tive edi­to­r­i­al con­tent — the stuff some view­ers may find “con­fronting” — as well as the inci­den­tal con­tent: ads for nov­els by Hen­ry Miller and Jean Genet, “dates com­put­er matched to your per­son­al­i­ty and tastes,” a machine promis­ing “a hot line to infinity/journey through the incred­i­ble land­scapes of your mind/kaleidoscopic mov­ing chang­ing image on which your mind projects its own changing/stun your­self & aston­ish friends,” and the “liq­uid lux­u­ry” of the Aquar­ius Water Bed. It does not, indeed, get more six­ties than that. Enter the Oz archive here.

oz15cov

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Tonite Let’s All Make Love in Lon­don (1968): An Insider’s View of 60s Lon­don Coun­ter­cul­ture

R. Crumb Describes How He Dropped LSD in the 60s & Instant­ly Dis­cov­ered His Artis­tic Style

The Con­fes­sions of Robert Crumb: A Por­trait Script­ed by the Under­ground Comics Leg­end Him­self (1987)

62 Psy­che­del­ic Clas­sics: A Free Playlist Cre­at­ed by Sean Lennon

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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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