We had to do it. We had to bring back a wonderful little animation of The Bayeux Tapestry — you know, the famous embroidery that offers a pictorial interpretation of the Norman Conquest of England (1066) and the events leading up to this pivotal moment in medieval history. Currently residing in France, the tapestry measures 20 inches by 230 feet, and you can now see an animated version of the story it narrates. The clip above starts roughly halfway through the historical narrative, with the appearance of Halley’s Comet, and it concludes with the Battle of Hastings in 1066. The video created by David Newton began as a student project at Goldsmiths College.
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A music scholar made an astounding discovery recently while going through the personal belongings from the attic of a recently deceased church musician and band leader in the Lech Valley of the Austrian Tyrol.
Combing through the dead man’s collection of old music manuscripts, Hildegard Herrmann-Schneider of the Institute for Tyrolean Music Research noticed a hand-written book with the date “1780” on the cover. On pages 12 to 14 she found an unidentified sonata movement with the tempo mark “allegro molto,” Italian for “very quickly.” On the upper right-hand side of page 12 was written “Del Signore Giovane Wolfgango Mozart,” or “The young Wolfgango Mozart.”
“Wolfgango” was a name Mozart’s father, Leopold, called him when he was a boy. Looking further into the manuscript, Herrmann-Schneider found several pieces that were already known to have been written by Leopold Mozart. Those compositions were respectfully marked “Signore Mozart,” or “Lord Mozart.”
Although the writing was clearly not in the hand of either the elder or the younger Mozart, the meticulousness of the transcriptions, along with the accuracy of every verifiable detail throughout the 160-page book, led Herrmann-Schneider to suspect that the composition by “The Young Wolfgango Mozart” was an authentic, previously unknown piece.
On the back of the manuscript was the copyist’s name: Johannes Reiserer. After an extensive investigation, Herrmann-Schneider was able to learn that Reiserer was born in 1765 and had gone to gymnasium, or high school, in Salzburg, where he was a member of the cathedral choir from 1778 to 1780. That would have placed him in close proximity to Leopold Mozart. “Researchers have thus concluded,” writes The History Blog, “that Johannes Reiserer used the notebook to copy compositions as part of a rigorous program of music instruction by Kapellhaus music masters, perhaps Leopold himself.”
Based on the style and the level of accomplishment in the piece, now known as the “Allegro Molto in C Major,” researchers place the date of composition at around 1767, when Mozart was 11 years old. A press release from the Institute for Tyrolean Music Research describes the piece:
Mozart frequently selected a C‑major key, and the Allegro molto has a sonata form with a length of 84 measures. Its ambitus is tailored to the clavichord. The Allegro molto could be a first major attempt by Wolfgang Amadé to assert himself in the area of the sonata form. This is suggested by the relatively high level of compositional technique.…Throughout the Allegro molto, thematic formation, compositional setting and harmony have a number of components that are found repeated in other Mozart piano works. Hardly a compositional detail points to a contradiction with the general characteristics of Mozart’s comsummate musical composition. According to current scholarly knowledge, it must therefore be regarded as an authentic sonata movement by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
Austrian musician Florian Birsak, who specializes in playing early keyboard instruments, gave the premier performance of the piece on Mozart’s own fortepiano last Friday at the Mozart family home in Salzburg, which is now a museum of the Salzburg Mozarteum Foundation. You can watch a video, above, which was recorded sometime earlier in the same place and on the same instrument. You can also read a PDF of the score, and download Birsak’s recording at iTunes.
The first page of Mozart’s Allegro Molto in C Major (above) from the 1780 notebook. Credit: Salzburg Mozarteum Foundation.
In an old Victorian railway station in the picturesque village of Alnwick, Northumberland, just South of the Scottish border, is a one-of-a-kind bookstore called Barter Books. The New Statesman called it “The British Library of secondhand books.” A model railway winds along a track laid out across row upon row of bookshelves in what was once the departure hall. During the winter months, customers sit and read by a roaring fire in the old waiting room.
One day in 2000, the store’s co-owner, Stuart Manley, was searching through a dusty box of books that were bought at auction, when he found a folded-up piece of paper at the bottom. He took the paper out, opened it and showed it to his wife and business partner, Mary Manley. Neither of them had seen it before. It said: “Keep Calm and Carry On.” As the BBC’s Stuart Hughes later put it, “the simple five-word message is the very model of British restraint and stiff upper lip.”
It turned out that the poster was one of millions that were printed on the eve of World War II but never distributed. The Manleys decided to frame the poster and hang it in the shop. Before long, customers were offering to buy it, so the Manleys decided to print some copies. Then in 2005 a national newspaper supplement recommended the poster as a Christmas gift and, as Stuart Manley put it, “all hell broke loose.”
Since that time, tens of thousands of the posters have been sold, and the slogan has found its way onto t‑shirts and coffee mugs and has been the inspiration of countless parodies like “Keep Calm and Party On” and “Freak Out and Run Like Hell.” Removed from its original context, the wartime slogan has an uncanny resonance in today’s world. “It’s very good, almost zen,” psychologist Lesley Prince told the BBC. “It works as a personal mantra now.”
For the story of this most improbable of 21st century icons, watch the three-minute film above, which was made by Temujin Doran in collaboration with the design and production studio Nation.
What did ancient Rome look like in A.D. 320? Rome Reborn is an international initiative to answer this question and create a 3D digital model of the Eternal City at a time when Rome’s population had reached its peak (about one million) and the first Christian churches were being built. The result is a truly stunning bird’s-eye and ground view of ancient Rome that makes you feel as if you were actually there. There are also some high-resolution images that lend themselves perfectly to being used as wallpaper for your computer. HT @amishare
By profession, Matthias Rascher teaches English and History at a High School in northern Bavaria, Germany. In his free time he scours the web for good links and posts the best finds on Twitter.
The Beatles were so much a part of the youth movement that blossomed in the 1960s that it’s amusing to think that one of the main issues that energized the movement–peace–came to the Beatles through a 92-year-old man.
As Paul McCartney explains in this clip from a January 14, 2009 interview on The View, it happened when he decided to pay a visit to philosopher Bertrand Russell. A co-founder of analytic philosophy, Russell had been a life-long social and political activist. During World War I, he was not allowed to travel freely in Britain due to his anti-war views. He lost his fellowship at Trinity College, Cambridge, and was eventually jailed for six months for supposedly interfering with British Foreign Policy. After World War II, Russell lobbied strenuously for the abolition of nuclear weapons. In the 1960s, he opposed the Vietnam War.
After the Beatles became big in 1963 and 1964, McCartney began taking advantage of his celebrity status by calling on people he admired. In an interview with Barry Miles for the book Paul McCartney: Many Years From Now, McCartney describes his meeting with Russell:
Somehow I got his number and called him up. I figured him as a good speaker, I’d seen him on television, I’d read various bits and pieces and was very impressed by his dignity and the clarity of this thinking, so when I got a chance I went down and met him. Bertrand Russell lived in Chelsea in one of those little terrace houses, I think it was Flood Street. He had the archetypal American assistant who seemed always to be at everyone’s door that you wanted to meet. I sat round waiting, then went in and had a great little talk with him. Nothing earth-shattering. He just clued me in to the fact that Vietnam was a very bad war, it was an imperialist war and American vested interests were really all it was all about. It was a bad war and we should be against it. That was all. It was pretty good from the mouth of the great philosopher. “Slip it to me, Bert.”
McCartney reported his experience to the other members of the Beatles, and it was John Lennon who really took the anti-war message and ran with it. For a reminder of those days, watch the video below of Lennon and Yoko Ono at their “Bed-In” for peace in 1969:
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George Orwell occupies a funny place in the modern literary consciousness. The last few generations came to know him, in English class, as the author of the novels Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four. My own peers may remember their teachers’ awkward inversion of the earlier book, forced as they were to clarify Orwell’s already direct Russian Revolution allegory by explaining that, a long time ago, there lived a man named Trotsky who was a lot like Snowball the pig, and so on. The later book, many readers’ first glimpse at a realistic dystopia, tends to hit us harder. All those tinny, piped-in patriotic anthems; the varicose veins; the sawdusty cigarettes; the defeated cups of watery tea — why on Earth, we asked ourselves, did Orwell so confidently foresee a shambolic world of such simultaneous chintziness and brutality?
Apart from his six novels and four volumes of memoir, Orwell produced an astonishing quantity of essays. These I regularly consult in my brick-like Everyman’s Library edition, and I bought that on the strength of two particular pieces: “Politics and the English Language” and “Why I Write.” Many of us encounter these here or there in the course of higher education, and none of us with an interest in reading, writing, thinking, and the feedback loop between the three forget them. Pressured to cite the most incisive passage in all of Orwell, how could I decide between the former essay’s description of how “a mass of Latin words falls upon the facts like soft snow, blurring the outline and covering up all the details,” and the latter essay’s contrast of the writer’s ego against that of “the great mass of human beings” who, after thirty, “almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all — and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery”?
Despite passing at only 46, Orwell left an almost imposingly large body of written work. Readers who’ve savored it and want to learn, hear, and see more come up against a certain difficulty: we have a few photographs of Orwell, but as far as sound or film, nothing exists. Yet that didn’t stop BBC Four from putting together George Orwell: A Life in Pictures, casting actor Chris Langham as Orwell, having him speak Orwell’s words, and inserting him, Zelig-like, into historical footage real and reconstructed of Orwell’s places and times. Documentary purists may balk at this, but strong choices make strong films. As a compulsive reader of Orwell myself, I’ll take any chance I can to experience more richly the mind of this child of the “lower upper-middle class” whose fascination with poverty drove him down into it; this socialist who loathed both the trappings and proponents of socialism; this worshiper of hard manual labor who understood more about the impact of words than most of us do today; this famed writer who cloaked his given name of Eric Arthur Blair to better retreat, alone, into his gray, quasi-ascetic English pleasures.
The Amsterdam Museum teamed up with the Dutch creative agency PlusOne to create a series of videos for the new Amsterdam DNA exhibition — an exhibition that offers a three-dimensional 45-minute journey through Amsterdam’s history. PlusOne created seven videos in total. The clip above comes from the second film called Revolt Against King and Church, and it obviously brings you back to Amsterdam in the 16th century. The clip below offers an aesthetic introduction to the exhibition itself. h/t The Atlantic
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Now we take you back to 1965, when Kurzweil wasn’t yet a futurist. Only 17 years old, he was a wunderkind, a high school student immersed in artificial intelligence who tinkered away, and eventually figured out how to program a computer to produce original musical compositions. When the producers of I’ve Got a Secret discovered his talents, they brought the young Kurzweil on the show. And the rest you can watch on the videotape above.
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