French Philosopher Jean Baudrillard Reads His Poetry, Backed By All-Star Arts Band (1996)

jean-baudrillard

Image by Euro­pean Grad­u­ate School, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

French post-struc­tural­ist philosopher/sociologist Jean Bau­drillard—usu­al­ly iden­ti­fied with his post­mod­ern the­o­ries of sim­u­lacra—is a lit­tle bit of a fringe fig­ure in pop cul­ture. Known to hip aca­d­e­m­ic types and avant-garde-ists, he’s maybe the kind of thinker who gets name-dropped more than read (and he’s no easy read).

But in the audio clip above, Bau­drillard reads to us, from his poet­ry no less, while backed by the swirling abstract sounds of The Chance Band, an all art-star ensem­ble fea­tur­ing Tom Wat­son (of The Miss­ing­men), George Hur­ley (of The Min­ute­men and fIRE­HOSE), Lynn John­ston, Dave Muller, Amy Stoll, and guest vocal­ist, the­o­rist Alluc­quère Rosanne (“Sandy”) Stone. It’s an odd, one-time, assem­blage of artists and thinkers UbuWeb describes as “unbe­liev­able but true!”:

Record­ed live as part of the Chance Fes­ti­val at Whiskey Pete’s Casi­no in State­line Neva­da, 1996. You’ve nev­er heard Bau­drillard like this before! Music to read Niet­zsche to.

Indeed. The track above is num­ber two on a twelve-track album called Sui­cide Moi, released in 2002 by Com­pound Annex Records. You can buy the CD here or stream and down­load indi­vid­ual tracks for free on UbuWeb.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Avant-Garde Media: The UbuWeb Col­lec­tion

Der­ri­da: A 2002 Doc­u­men­tary on the Abstract Philoso­pher and the Every­day Man

Josh Jones is a writer, edi­tor, and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness

A Bird Ballet in Southern France

Look at what Neels Castil­lon unex­pect­ed­ly cap­tured on film while doing some shoot­ing at a Mar­seille air­port. Birds doing a pret­ty incred­i­ble bal­let in the sky. If you enjoy watch­ing mur­mu­ra­tions, you’ll want to watch this oth­er footage shot in Rome and espe­cial­ly this breath­tak­ing (no hyper­bole here) clip from Ire­land. It’s all quite stun­ning.

via Andrew Sul­li­van

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Meet “Father Philanthropy”: America’s Most Prolific and Unlikely Master Art Forger

Close your eyes and pic­ture a phil­an­thropist.

Like­ly you envi­sioned a fat cat with a design­er check­book. It’s the accept­ed image, but not every bene­fac­tor fits the mold.

Take Mark Lan­dis, a gen­tle soul who’s spent three decades sur­pris­ing the staffs of small Amer­i­can muse­ums with art­work pre­sent­ed out of the blue. Not just any art­work, and cer­tain­ly not the nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry orig­i­nals they were rep­re­sent­ed as—in every case, donor Lan­dis was even­tu­al­ly revealed to be the artist.

In Ter­ri Time­ly’s doc­u­men­tary glimpse, “Father Phil­an­thropy” (above, with a delet­ed scene below), Lan­dis oblig­ing­ly guides view­ers through the mul­ti-step process by which his forg­eries are cre­at­ed, but he reveals lit­tle about his moti­va­tion, beyond a desire to hon­or the mem­o­ry of his par­ents (Moth­er looms large here.)

His fakes don’t add up to a grand con­cep­tu­al piece, a la artist  J. S. G. Bog­gs’ incred­i­bly detailed, far-more-valu­able-than-the-items-they-were-used-to-pur­chase ban­knotes. He seems indif­fer­ent to the pos­si­bil­i­ty of high pro­file, if ill got­ten, pres­tige. He is, quite sim­ply a giv­er. His gifts cost the recip­i­ents pro­fes­sion­al pride and unex­pect­ed fees asso­ci­at­ed with fer­ret­ing out the truth, but they seem mal­ice-free. “About all I’ve got is an abil­i­ty to draw and paint,” he states, “So nat­u­ral­ly it led me to give away draw­ing and paint­ings.”

via The Atlantic

Relat­ed Con­tent

Art for the One Per­cent: 60 Min­utes on the Excess & Hubris of the Inter­na­tion­al Art Mar­ket

Art Lovers Rejoice! New Goya and Rem­brandt Data­bas­es Now Online

Ayun Hal­l­i­day keeps things real @ayunhalliday

The Ultimate Full Moon Shot

The quick back­sto­ry: “Dean Pot­ter walks a high­line at Cathe­dral Peak as the sun sets and the moon ris­es. Shot from over 1 mile away with a Canon 800mm and 2X by Mikey Schae­fer. This shot was part of a big­ger project for Nation­al Geo­graph­ic called The Man Who Can Fly. ”

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F. Scott Fitzgerald in Drag (1916)

F-SCOTT-FITZGERALD-in dragIt has been said that the dom­i­nant influ­ences on F. Scott Fitzger­ald were lit­er­a­ture, Zel­da, alco­hol, and Prince­ton. The pho­tos above were tak­en dur­ing the nov­el­ist’s Prince­ton days, where he played an active role in The Prince­ton Tri­an­gle Club, writ­ing scripts and lyrics for what’s now the old­est col­le­giate musi­cal-com­e­dy troupe in the US. After Fitzger­ald failed sev­er­al exams, he was barred from per­form­ing in the club’s 1916 musi­cal pro­duc­tion, The Evil Eye!. A shame, giv­en that he co-wrote the script. But F. Scott was­n’t going to be com­plete­ly denied. Yes, he posed in drag for a pub­lic­i­ty pho­to that appeared in The New York Times on Jan­u­ary 2, 1916. The news­pa­per called him “the most beau­ti­ful” girl in the show.

H/T Retro­naut

Relat­ed Con­tent:

F. Scott Fitzger­ald Cre­ates a List of 22 Essen­tial Books, 1936

F. Scott Fitzger­ald Reads From Shakespeare’s Oth­el­lo and John Masefield’s “On Grow­ing Old” (c.1940)

Ernest Hem­ing­way to F. Scott Fitzger­ald: “Kiss My Ass”

Find major works by F. Scott Fitzger­ald in our Free eBooks and Free Audio Books col­lec­tions.

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Chowda!: Three Centuries of Recipes Reveal the Rise of New England’s Finest Culinary Export

Say chow­der out loud: chow­der. The word sounds like food. Not an appe­tiz­er either. An entree in a small crock topped with bro­ken crack­ers.

As with so many things relat­ed to food, chow­der is a sto­ried dish. It hails from New Eng­land and north­east­ern Cana­da, its first writ­ten ref­er­ence dat­ing back to 1732 when a jour­nal­ist recalls din­ing on a “fine chow­dered cod.”

There are as many types of chow­der as there are soup, though a true chow­der is more like a stew than a soup. Some purists would rather eat slugs than a chow­der with toma­toes in it or whose name ref­er­ences New York. But all chow­ders must fea­ture the fol­low­ing: broth, salt pork, bis­cuit and seafood.

Aside from that, all bets are off. Chow down.

Of course a region­al dish with this long a his­to­ry and which leaves this much room for inter­pre­ta­tion deserves a his­to­ry of its own, and so the good peo­ple at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Mass­a­chu­setts, Amherst cre­at­ed the New Eng­land Chow­der Com­pendi­um, a col­lec­tion of recipes and ephemera explor­ing how chow­der rose to become a sta­ple of New Eng­land cook­ery.

Culled from cook­books held by the university’s Beat­rice McIn­tosh Cook­ery Col­lec­tion, the com­pendi­um chron­i­cles chow­der recipes from the 1700s to the 1970s, through lean times and fat, through recipes heavy with cream and with­out.

And so, as read­ers click through fea­tured chow­der recipes from the 1920s on through to the 1940s, they’re sure to notice the ways ingre­di­ents vary. Use evap­o­rat­ed milk and a lit­tle water, if cream is not avail­able. House­wives were wise in the 1940s to be thrifty while mak­ing fresh stock from knuck­les: Save that fat that rose to the top and sell it to your meat deal­er.

Chow­der may be one of the poster food for peo­ple who are mak­ing do. Don’t have fresh seafood? Canned tuna will do. Lima beans soaked overnight can sub­sti­tute for clams.

As with most hand­writ­ten recipes, the hand­writ­ing and illus­tra­tions are part of the fun. One rad­i­cal sug­gests adding a dash of papri­ka. This recipe, for the Kingston Yacht Club, may have fed the entire mem­ber­ship (three gal­lons of clams?!)

The archivists include a nice primer, trac­ing the devel­op­ment of chow­der (the word comes from French for “caul­dron”).

One recipe that doesn’t sound so good: diet chow­der from the 1970s.

Kate Rix writes about dig­i­tal media and edu­ca­tion. Read more of her work at and at thenifty.blogspot.com.

Watch the “Biblio-Mat” Book-Vending Machine Dispense Literary Delight

We thought that Brazen­head Books might qual­i­fy as the quirki­est book­store we’ve encoun­tered. After all, it’s run out of Michael Sei­den­berg’s apart­ment in New York City. But get a load of this: The Monkey’s Paw, which calls itself â€śToronto’s most idio­syn­crat­ic sec­ond-hand book­shop,” has installed the Bib­lio-mat, a vend­ing machine that dis­pens­es ran­dom books for a very nom­i­nal fee — $2 per book. (If you’re look­ing for $0, see our lists below.) In a recent inter­view with QuillandQuire.com, Stephen Fowler, the book­store’s own­er, explained the sto­ry behind the Bib­lio-mat:

I went fish­ing this past sum­mer with Craig Small, co-founder of The Jug­ger­naut, an ani­ma­tion stu­dio in Toron­to. I had this idea that I would love to have a vend­ing machine that gave out ran­dom books. I pic­tured it as a paint­ed refrig­er­a­tor box with one of my assis­tants inside; peo­ple would put in a coin and he would drop a book out. But Craig is more prag­mat­ic and vision­ary then I am. He said, “You need to have an actu­al mechan­i­cal vend­ing machine.” That was beyond my wildest imag­in­ings, but not Craig’s, so he just built it for me.

Thanks to Small, you can now watch the Bib­lio-mat in action above. It whirrs. It vibrates. And it final­ly deliv­ers a book with a sat­is­fy­ing clunk.

via Gal­ley Cat

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load Free Audio Books and Free eBooks

Spike Jonze Presents a Stop Motion Film for Book Lovers

Books Savored in Stop Motion Film

Going West: A Stop Motion Nov­el

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Salvador DalĂ­ Reveals the Secrets of His Trademark Moustache (1954)

In a 2010 poll, Sal­vador Dalí’s facial hair was vot­ed the most famous mous­tache of all time. The flam­boy­ant mous­tache was part of his schtick, there’s no deny­ing that. But some have assigned a deep­er mean­ing to it. The Wike­pe­dia entry for DalĂ­ attrib­uted the facial hair to 17th-cen­tu­ry Span­ish mas­ter painter Diego Velázquez (see image). And yet per­haps the influ­ence was more lit­er­ary than painter­ly. Appear­ing on the game show The Name’s the Same in Jan­u­ary, 1954, DalĂ­ was asked (at the 4:00 mark) whether the stache was a joke. To which the Span­ish painter respond­ed, “It’s the most seri­ous part of my per­son­al­i­ty. It’s a very sim­ple Hun­gar­i­an mous­tache. Mr. Mar­cel Proust used the same kind of pomade for this mous­tache.” And there you have it, the artis­tic influ­ence of the world’s most famous facial hair.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sal­vador Dalí’s 100 Illus­tra­tions of Dante’s The Divine Com­e­dy

Sal­vador Dali Gets Sur­re­al with Mike Wal­lace (1958)

Q: Sal­vador Dalí, Are You a Crack­pot? A: No, I’m Just Almost Crazy (1969)

A Tour Inside Sal­vador Dalí’s Labyrinthine Span­ish Home

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