New Archive Showcases Dr. Seuss’s Early Work as an Advertising Illustrator and Political Cartoonist

Most peo­ple know Dr. Seuss (Theodor Seuss Geisel) as a writer and illus­tra­tor of some of the world’s most-beloved children’s books. And while it’s true that some of his char­ac­ters have not fared well since his death in 1991, his lega­cy as a play­ful moral­ist is secure with par­ents and teach­ers every­where. But few peo­ple know that Geisel got his start as a satirist and illus­tra­tor for adults, pub­lish­ing arti­cles and illus­tra­tions in Judge, Life, Van­i­ty Fair, and the Sat­ur­day Evening Post. He went on to promi­nence as an adver­tis­ing illus­tra­tor dur­ing the Depres­sion, most famous­ly with a 17-year cam­paign for a bug-repel­lant called Flit—made by Stan­dard Oil—whose slo­gan, “Quick, Hen­ry, the Flit!” became a pop­u­lar catch phrase in the 30s.

The Uni­ver­si­ty of Cal­i­for­nia, San Diego, has a spe­cial col­lec­tion of Geisel’s adver­tis­ing work from the 30s and 40s (such as the image above) for clients like Stan­dard, NBC, and Ford. The images show Geisel the illus­tra­tor devel­op­ing visu­al themes that char­ac­ter­ize his children’s books—the cir­cus imagery, ele­phants, daz­zling phys­i­cal stunts, wide-eyed, fur­ry crea­tures, com­plex Rube Gold­berg machines, and the sig­na­ture dis­em­bod­ied point­ing gloves. Dur­ing World War II, Geisel shift­ed his focus from adver­tis­ing to pol­i­tics and con­tributed week­ly car­toons to PM mag­a­zine, a lib­er­al pub­li­ca­tion. UCSD also has an online cat­a­log of Geisel’s polit­i­cal car­toons, such as the 1941 ad for U.S. Sav­ings Bonds below.

 

via Coudal

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

“The Ducktators”: Loony Tunes Turns Animation into Wartime Propaganda (1942)

George Orwell pub­lished his satir­i­cal alle­go­ry Ani­mal Farm in 1945 at the tail end of World War II. While Orwell claimed his inspi­ra­tion for the farm set­ting was a bucol­ic vil­lage scene, it’s tempt­ing to imag­ine that he also drew some of his ideas from Amer­i­can pro­pa­gan­da car­toons made dur­ing WWII by Dis­ney (see below) and Warn­er Broth­ers. One par­tic­u­lar­ly strik­ing exam­ple from 1942 is Loony Tunes’ “The Duck­ta­tors,” set on a farm that becomes Europe under a new­ly-hatched Adolf Hitler duck­ling, sport­ing the fore­lock and mus­tache and shout­ing “sieg heil” as soon as he emerges from his jet-black egg. Hitler-duck’s pos­tur­ing appeals to a strut­ting, broad­ly stereo­typ­i­cal Ital­ian goose (Mus­soli­ni), and many of the ducks and geese on the farm, who line to up salute and, um… goos­es­tep. There are plen­ty of lit­tle gags thrown in—it’s all played for comedy—but of course, there is a mes­sage (or two) here.

First, cut to the sim­per­ing “Dove of Peace,” an androg­y­nous crea­ture who wrings its hands and says, “Have they for­got? ‘Tis love that’s right, and naught is gained by show of might.” This is clear­ly a car­i­ca­ture of Neville Cham­ber­lain, whose inef­fec­tu­al poli­cies enabled and embold­ened Hitler.

Cham­ber­lain is remem­bered for pre­ma­ture­ly declar­ing that his appease­ment of Hitler in the 1938 Munich Pact (here rep­re­sent­ed by a barn­yard “Peace Con­fer­ence”) had secured “peace for our time.” The ref­er­ence is an inter­est­ing exam­ple of a wartime dig at the U.S.’s British allies.

Hitler-duck tears up the “Peace Con­fer­ence” treaty and beats up the British and French ducks. Then a (painful­ly racist) Japan­ese duck rows ashore singing “I’m a Japan­ese Sandman”—a stand in for Tojo Hide­ki or Emper­or Hiro­hi­to. The three “Duck­ta­tors” rule the roost and tram­ple the Dove of Peace under­foot. His­tor­i­cal alle­go­ry gives way to slap­stick, and the wimpy Dove morphs into a pudgy, vic­to­ri­ous Churchill with the Duck­ta­tors’ heads mount­ed on his wall. Then, mes­sage num­ber two appears with fan­fare: “If you’d like to make this true, here’s all you have to do: For Vic­to­ry Buy Unit­ed States Sav­ings Bonds and Stamps.” Over­all, The Duck­ta­tors is a fas­ci­nat­ing exam­ple of wartime adver­tis­ing, and of con­tem­po­rary U.S. feel­ings towards its Euro­pean allies. You can down­load The Duck­ta­tors here.

Find Dis­ney Pro­pa­gan­da Films Here:

The Mak­ing of a Nazi: Disney’s 1943 Ani­mat­ed Short

Don­ald Duck’s Bad Nazi Dream (1942)

Don­ald Duck Wants You to Pay Your Tax­es (1943)

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

 

Too Big for Any Museum, AIDS Quilt Goes Digital Thanks to Microsoft

Twen­ty-five years ago a group of friends gath­ered in a San Fran­cis­co apart­ment to memo­ri­al­ize com­pan­ions who had died of AIDS. They used one of the old­est tech­niques around to hon­or their loved ones: they made a quilt, the now-famous AIDS Memo­r­i­al Quilt, with unique pan­els for each per­son felled by the dis­ease. Now includ­ing some 48,000 pan­els, the quilt has grown into a mas­sive, pub­lic expres­sion of grief. Its pan­els come from around the world. It was even nom­i­nat­ed for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989. (Find more on the his­to­ry of the quilt here.)

Like any good archive—and the quilt is an archive of life and loss—the AIDS Memo­r­i­al Quilt serves as a his­tor­i­cal repos­i­to­ry, a store­house of sen­ti­men­tal infor­ma­tion for scores of peo­ple. But beyond that the quilt is a piece of polit­i­cal folk art. AIDS, after all, is a unique­ly polit­i­cal dis­ease, at least in the Unit­ed States. The idea for the quilt was con­ceived dur­ing a can­dle­light march for assas­si­nat­ed San Fran­cis­co May­or George Moscone and Super­vi­sor Har­vey Milk. Efforts to lift the stig­ma of AIDS are close­ly linked to gay rights activism.

While the quilt is on view in Wash­ing­ton, D.C. this sum­mer, Microsoft offers the world up close and per­son­al access. Even if the Mall is too small to hold the entire quilt, the Inter­net isn’t. All 48,000 pan­els are new­ly dig­i­tized through a col­lab­o­ra­tion between Microsoft and the Uni­ver­si­ty of Iowa, the Uni­ver­si­ty of South­ern Cal­i­for­nia and the Names Quilt Foun­da­tion.

You can fly like a bird over the whole, beau­ti­ful piece. You can zoom in to read the thou­sands of names—some in block let­ters, oth­ers stitched in cur­sive. You can count the rain­bows, too.

You can also search the quilt by name or, if you know it, by the block num­ber of a par­tic­u­lar pan­el through the AIDS Quilt Touch inter­face. The site allows unique search­es for each time the quilt has been dis­played. This is impor­tant because the quilt is so mas­sive that the Mall in Wash­ing­ton can’t hold it all. It’s always dis­played in sec­tions, so if you want to know where a spe­cial pan­el has been on view, recent­ly, it’s now pos­si­ble to find out.

Kate Rix is a free­lance writer based in Oak­land. See more of her work at .

Versailles 3D, Created by Google, Gives You an Impressive Tour of Louis XIV’s Famous Palace

With 3D scale mod­els, music, and video, Google’s Ver­sailles 3D brings the best of 21st cen­tu­ry web arts to 18th cen­tu­ry art his­to­ry. The palace was built by Louis XIV, the “Sun King,” who exem­pli­fied all of the author­i­tar­i­an excess­es of the French monar­chy. For­tu­nate­ly for pos­ter­i­ty, he was also a patron of the arts, to whom we owe much of the work of Moliere, Racine and painters such as Charles Le Brun. And then there is his archi­tec­tur­al lega­cy, the palace of Ver­sailles, which start­ed out as a hum­ble hunt­ing lodge, built by his father Louis XIII in 1624. In the next sev­er­al decades, father, then son, com­mis­sioned the elab­o­rate set of build­ings that con­sti­tute Europe’s largest chateau and the seat of French gov­ern­ment from Louis XIV’s ascen­sion until the Rev­o­lu­tion of 1789. If you’re think­ing of vis­it­ing, the offi­cial chateau de Ver­sailles web­site has slideshows of grounds and gal­leries, a bou­tique, and some worth­while inter­ac­tive fea­tures. But Google, as usu­al, has tried to out­do its com­pe­ti­tion, this time by part­ner­ing with it. In con­nec­tion with the Ver­sailles cura­tors, The Google Cul­tur­al Insti­tute has cre­at­ed a mul­ti­me­dia almost-sub­sti­tute for a real life excur­sion to the gar­gan­tu­an and endur­ing sym­bol of Ancien Regime France.

The next video is a pre­view of a “Google Chrome Exper­i­ment” called “Chaos to Per­fec­tion,” an “inter­ac­tive stroll around the palace,” accom­pa­nied by an orig­i­nal sound­track from French band Phoenix. (The “exper­i­ment” itself is some­what slow load­ing, and requires the Chrome brows­er).

Final­ly, the engi­neers at Google (and part­ners Aloest, Wes­t­im­ages, le Fab­Shop and Les 84) give us a look behind the scenes of Ver­sailles 3D. Won­der how they cre­at­ed the elab­o­rate 3D scale mod­els of the palace grounds and build­ings? Well, the video below pro­vides a bar­rage of back­stage glimpses of the process, along with scenes from the open­ing of the Palace His­to­ry Gallery on June 14th.

And, of course, there will be mobile apps, Google promis­es, “soon.”

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

Leni Riefenstahl Captures Jesse Owens Dashing Nazi Dreams at the 1936 Olympics

Jesse Owens, the son of a share­crop­per and grand­son of slaves, went to the 1936 Olympics in Berlin and upset Hitler’s visions of Aryan suprema­cy. He did it not once, but four times, win­ning gold medals in the 100-meter dash, 200-meter dash, the long jump and the 4 x 100 meter relay. The first race was cap­tured by the Ger­man filmmaker/propagandist Leni Riefen­stahl in her famous film doc­u­ment­ing the 1936 Games, Olympia. It’s all queued up above and ready to go.

Now the cru­el foot­note to this sto­ry: after his four vic­to­ries, Owens returned to the U.S. and imme­di­ate­ly con­front­ed the cold racist atti­tudes of his coun­try­men. There was no pause, no reprieve, even for an Olympic gold medal­ist. Lat­er, he recalled:

When I came back to my native coun­try, after all the sto­ries about Hitler, I could­n’t ride in the front of the bus. I had to go to the back door. I could­n’t live where I want­ed. I was­n’t invit­ed to shake hands with Hitler, but I was­n’t invit­ed to the White House to shake hands with the Pres­i­dent, either.

New York City did hold a tick­er-tape parade in his hon­or. But when he attend­ed a recep­tion at the Wal­dorf-Asto­ria, he was forced to ride the freight ele­va­tor. And he did­n’t make it to the White House until Eisen­how­er named him an “Ambas­sador of Sports” in 1955. FDR and Tru­man nev­er both­ered to extend an invi­ta­tion to the Olympic hero. Stephen elab­o­rates on all of this below:

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Alexander Hamilton: Hip-Hop Hero at the White House Poetry Evening

Recent­ly we brought you the sto­ry of the Alexan­der Hamil­ton-Aaron Burr duel, as told in a drunk­en stu­por by Mark Gagliar­di and star­ring Zom­bieland’s Michael Cera as Hamil­ton. Now we have anoth­er unusu­al nar­ra­tor of the life of Amer­i­ca’s first Trea­sury Sec­re­tary. Lin-Manuel Miran­da, Tony award-win­ning writer and star of the Broad­way musi­cal In the Heights, com­posed “The Hamil­ton Mix­tape,” a song detail­ing the found­ing father’s rise from hum­ble begin­nings as (in the words of John Adams) “the bas­tard brat of a Scot­tish ped­dler,” to the upper ech­e­lons of the Amer­i­can Rev­o­lu­tion­ary gov­ern­ment. Born on the Caribbean island of Nevis, Hamilton’s sto­ry is as boot­strap as they come, and Miran­da took his ver­sion all the way to the top. In the video above, he per­forms “The Hamil­ton Mix­tape” for Barack and Michelle Oba­ma at the White House Evening of Poet­ry, Music, and the Spo­ken Word, held on May 12, 2009.

To learn more about Alexan­der Hamil­ton, vis­it AllThingHamilton.com.

And check out Miran­da’s lyrics below the jump. (more…)

The Science of the Olympic Flame; Ancient Style Meets Modern Technology

For all the recent scan­dal and the trau­ma of past Games, the Olympics remain a pageant of grandeur and glo­ry, and there is no greater sym­bol of its ideals than the Olympic Flame. The video above, from the Ontario Sci­ence Cen­tre, explains the evolv­ing tech­nol­o­gy that keeps the flame burn­ing from its light­ing to the clos­ing cer­e­monies. It’s a pret­ty cool sto­ry, set to a bom­bas­tic sound­track wor­thy of its sub­ject and car­ried by an ani­mat­ed run­ner who just peeled him­self off of an ancient Athen­ian vase.

Intro­duced in the 1928 Sum­mer Olympics in Ams­ter­dam, the flame revives a sym­bol from antiq­ui­ty, com­mem­o­rat­ing Prometheus’s audac­i­ty and remind­ing war­ring city states to put aside hos­til­i­ties for as long as it burned. In the mod­ern Olympics, between the light­ing and the open­ing cer­e­monies, the flame, in its styl­ized torch, makes a pil­grim­age to the host city via relay, a prac­tice that began with the 1936 games in Berlin. This year’s relay start­ed on May 19th in Land’s End in Corn­wall and ends this Fri­day, the 27th at the open­ing cer­e­mo­ny in Lon­don. The torch will have trav­eled through 1,000 places in the UK, cov­ered a total of 8,000 miles (and pass­ing through 8,000 hands), mov­ing over land, air, and water, with­out once hav­ing to be relit.

Fol­low us on Face­bookTwit­ter and now Google Plus and share intel­li­gent media with your friends! We’ll thank you for it.

The Life and Times of Nelson Mandela Retold with Facebook, Twitter and Instagram

Back in March, we told you about the launch of The Nel­son Man­dela Dig­i­tal Archive, which makes avail­able thou­sands of papers belong­ing to the man who gal­va­nized the anti-apartheid move­ment in South Africa, before even­tu­al­ly becom­ing the leader of the nation. Part­ly fund­ed by Google, the archive lets you revis­it impor­tant moments in Man­de­la’s life — his Ear­ly Life, his Prison Years, and his Pres­i­den­tial Years.

That Dig­i­tal Archive offers one way to tell Man­de­la’s sto­ry. Now here’s anoth­er. The cre­ators of the web site Man­dela Sto­ry launched a short video yes­ter­day that looks at Man­de­la’s life through the lens of social media. And it’s meant to raise a seri­ous ques­tion: “Would Man­dela have spent 27 years in cap­tiv­i­ty if he (and oth­ers) had access to the same tech­nol­o­gy, social media plat­forms and tools as we do today?”

It’s short and cer­tain­ly cre­ative. And if it speaks to you, you should check out Rembrandt’s Face­book Time­line, a clip cre­at­ed by The Rijksmu­se­um that imag­ines the social life of the great Dutch painter.

Fol­low us on Face­bookTwit­ter and now Google Plus and share intel­li­gent media with your friends! They’ll thank you for it.

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