NASA Enlists Andy Warhol, Annie Leibovitz, Norman Rockwell & 350 Other Artists to Visually Document America’s Space Program

It’s hard to imag­ine that the space-crazed gen­er­al pub­lic need­ed any help get­ting worked up about astro­nauts and NASA in the ear­ly ’60s.

Per­haps the wild pop­u­lar­i­ty of space-relat­ed imagery was in part what moti­vat­ed NASA admin­is­tra­tor James Webb to cre­ate the NASA Art Pro­gram in 1962.

Although the pro­gram’s hand­picked artists weren’t edit­ed or cen­sored in any way, they were briefed on how NASA hoped to be rep­re­sent­ed, and which emo­tions their cre­ations were meant to capture—the excite­ment and uncer­tain­ty of explor­ing these fron­tiers.

NASA was also care­ful to col­lect every­thing the artists pro­duced while par­tic­i­pat­ing in the pro­gram, from sketch­es to fin­ished work.

In turn, the artists received unprece­dent­ed access to launch sites, key per­son­nel, and major events such as Project Mer­cury and the Apol­lo 11 Mis­sion.

Hun­dreds of artists, includ­ing Andy Warhol, Nor­man Rock­well, and Lau­rie Ander­son, have brought their unique sen­si­bil­i­ties to the project. (Find NASA-inspired art by Warhol and Rock­well above.)

(And hey, no shame if you mis­tak­en­ly assumed Warhol’s 1987 Moon­walk 1 was cre­at­ed as a pro­mo for MTV…)

Jamie Wyeth’s 1964 water­col­or Gem­i­ni Launch Pad includes a hum­ble bicy­cle, the means by which tech­ni­cians trav­eled back and forth between the launch pad and the rein­forced-con­crete block­house where they worked.

Pho­tog­ra­ph­er Annie Lei­bovitz offers two views of NASA’s first female pilot and com­man­der, Eileen Collins—with and with­out hel­met.

Postage stamp design­er, Paul Calle, one of the inau­gur­al group of par­tic­i­pat­ing artists, pro­duced a stamp com­mem­o­rat­ing the Gem­i­ni 4 space cap­sule in cel­e­bra­tion of NASA’s 9th anniver­sary. When the Apol­lo 11 astro­nauts suit­ed up pri­or to blastoff on July 16, 1969, Calle was the only artist present. His quick­ly ren­dered felt-tip mark­er sketch­es lend a back­stage ele­ment to the hero­ic iconog­ra­phy sur­round­ing astro­nauts Arm­strong, Aldrin and Collins. One of the items they car­ried with them on their jour­ney was the engraved print­ing plate of Calle’s 1967 com­mem­o­ra­tive stamp. They hand-can­celed a proof aboard the flight, on the assump­tion that post offices might be hard to come by on the moon.

In 2016, NASA’s Jet Propul­sion Lab­o­ra­to­ry enlist­ed a team of nine artists, design­ers, and illus­tra­tors to col­lab­o­rate on 14 posters, a visu­al throw­back to the ones the WPA cre­at­ed between 1938 and 1941 to spark pub­lic inter­est in the Nation­al Parks. You can see the results at the Exo­plan­et Trav­el Bureau.

More recent­ly, in 2024, NASA and the artist team Ger­aluz and WERC relaunched the pro­gram with space-themed murals in Man­hat­tan.

View an album of 25 his­toric works from NASA’s Art Pro­gram here.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2019.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lau­rie Ander­son Cre­ates a Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty Instal­la­tion That Takes View­ers on an Uncon­ven­tion­al Tour of the Moon

Star Trek’s Nichelle Nichols Cre­ates a Short Film for NASA to Recruit New Astro­nauts (1977)

NASA Dig­i­tizes 20,000 Hours of Audio from the His­toric Apol­lo 11 Mis­sion: Stream Them Free Online

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and the­ater mak­er in NYC.

How Ada Lovelace, Daughter of Lord Byron, Wrote the First Computer Program in 1842–a Century Before the First Computer

I’ve nev­er quite under­stood why the phrase “revi­sion­ist his­to­ry” became pure­ly pejo­ra­tive. Of course, it has its Orwellian dark side, but all knowl­edge has to be revised peri­od­i­cal­ly, as we acquire new infor­ma­tion and, ide­al­ly, dis­card old prej­u­dices and nar­row frames of ref­er­ence. A fail­ure to do so seems fun­da­men­tal­ly regres­sive, not only in polit­i­cal terms, but also in terms of how we val­ue accu­rate, inter­est­ing, and engaged schol­ar­ship. Such research has brought us fas­ci­nat­ing sto­ries about pre­vi­ous­ly mar­gin­al­ized peo­ple who made sig­nif­i­cant con­tri­bu­tions to sci­en­tif­ic dis­cov­ery, such as NASA’s “human com­put­ers,” por­trayed in the book Hid­den Fig­ures, then dra­ma­tized in the film of the same name.

Like­wise, the many women who worked at Bletch­ley Park dur­ing World War II—helping to deci­pher encryp­tions like the Nazi Enig­ma Code (out of near­ly 10,000 code­break­ers, about 75% were women)—have been get­ting their his­tor­i­cal due, thanks to “revi­sion­ist” researchers. And, as we not­ed in a pri­or post, we might not know much, if any­thing, about film star Hedy Lamarr’s sig­nif­i­cant con­tri­bu­tions to wire­less, GPS, and Blue­tooth tech­nol­o­gy were it not for the work of his­to­ri­ans like Richard Rhodes. These few exam­ples, among many, show us a fuller, more accu­rate, and more inter­est­ing view of the his­to­ry of sci­ence and tech­nol­o­gy, and they inspire women and girls who want to enter the field, yet have grown up with few role mod­els to encour­age them.

We can add to the pan­theon of great women in sci­ence the name Ada Byron, Count­ess of Lovelace, the daugh­ter of Roman­tic poet Lord Byron. Lovelace has been renowned, as Hank Green tells us in the video at the top of the post, for writ­ing the first com­put­er pro­gram, “despite liv­ing a cen­tu­ry before the inven­tion of the mod­ern com­put­er.” This pic­ture of Lovelace has been a con­tro­ver­sial one. “His­to­ri­ans dis­agree,” writes prodi­gious math­e­mati­cian Stephen Wol­fram. “To some she is a great hero in the his­to­ry of com­put­ing; to oth­ers an over­es­ti­mat­ed minor fig­ure.”

Wol­fram spent some time with “many orig­i­nal doc­u­ments” to untan­gle the mys­tery. “I feel like I’ve final­ly got­ten to know Ada Lovelace,” he writes, “and got­ten a grasp on her sto­ry. In some ways it’s an ennobling and inspir­ing sto­ry; in some ways it’s frus­trat­ing and trag­ic.” Edu­cat­ed in math and music by her moth­er, Anne Isabel­la Mil­banke, Lovelace became acquaint­ed with math­e­mat­ics pro­fes­sor Charles Bab­bage, the inven­tor of a cal­cu­lat­ing machine called the Dif­fer­ence Engine, “a 2‑foot-high hand-cranked con­trap­tion with 2000 brass parts.” Bab­bage encour­aged her to pur­sue her inter­ests in math­e­mat­ics, and she did so through­out her life.

Wide­ly acknowl­edged as one of the fore­fa­thers of com­put­ing, Bab­bage even­tu­al­ly cor­re­spond­ed with Lovelace on the cre­ation of anoth­er machine, the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine, which “sup­port­ed a whole list of pos­si­ble kinds of oper­a­tions, that could in effect be done in arbi­trar­i­ly pro­grammed sequence.” When, in 1842, Ital­ian math­e­mati­cian Louis Menabrea pub­lished a paper in French on the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine, “Bab­bage enlist­ed Ada as trans­la­tor,” notes the San Diego Super­com­put­er Cen­ter’s Women in Sci­ence project. “Dur­ing a nine-month peri­od in 1842–43, she worked fever­ish­ly on the arti­cle and a set of Notes she append­ed to it. These are the source of her endur­ing fame.” (You can read her trans­la­tion and notes here.)

In the course of his research, Wol­fram pored over Bab­bage and Lovelace’s cor­re­spon­dence about the trans­la­tion, which reads “a lot like emails about a project might today, apart from being in Vic­to­ri­an Eng­lish.” Although she built on Bab­bage and Menabrea’s work, “She was clear­ly in charge” of suc­cess­ful­ly extrap­o­lat­ing the pos­si­bil­i­ties of the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine, but she felt “she was first and fore­most explain­ing Babbage’s work, so want­ed to check things with him.” Her addi­tions to the work were very well-received—Michael Fara­day called her “the ris­ing star of Science”—and when her notes were pub­lished, Bab­bage wrote, “you should have writ­ten an orig­i­nal paper.”

Unfor­tu­nate­ly, as a woman, “she couldn’t get access to the Roy­al Society’s library in Lon­don,” and her ambi­tions were derailed by a severe health cri­sis. Lovelace died of can­cer at the age of 36, and for some time, her work sank into semi-obscu­ri­ty. Though some his­to­ri­ans have seen her as sim­ply an expos­i­tor of Babbage’s work, Wol­fram con­cludes that it was Ada who had the idea of “what the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine should be capa­ble of.” Her notes sug­gest­ed pos­si­bil­i­ties Bab­bage had nev­er dreamed of. As the Women in Sci­ence project puts it, “She right­ly saw [the Ana­lyt­i­cal Engine] as what we would call a gen­er­al-pur­pose com­put­er. It was suit­ed for ‘devel­op­ping [sic] and tab­u­lat­ing any func­tion what­ev­er… the engine [is] the mate­r­i­al expres­sion of any indef­i­nite func­tion of any degree of gen­er­al­i­ty and com­plex­i­ty.’ Her Notes antic­i­pate future devel­op­ments, includ­ing com­put­er-gen­er­at­ed music.”

In an episode of the BBC’s In Our Time, above, you can hear for­mer-host Melvyn Bragg dis­cuss Lovelace’s impor­tance with his­to­ri­ans and schol­ars Patri­cia Fara, Doron Swade, and John Fue­gi. And be sure to read Wolfram’s bio­graph­i­cal and his­tor­i­cal account of Lovelace here.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How 1940s Film Star Hedy Lamarr Helped Invent the Tech­nol­o­gy Behind Wi-Fi & Blue­tooth Dur­ing WWII

The Con­tri­bu­tions of Women Philoso­phers Recov­ered by the New Project Vox Web­site

Real Women Talk About Their Careers in Sci­ence

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC.

How Did Everything Begin?: Animations on the Origins of the Universe Narrated by X‑Files Star Gillian Anderson

We pre­vi­ous­ly brought you the BBC series of short ani­mat­ed videos, A His­to­ry of Ideas. Pro­duced in col­lab­o­ra­tion with the UK’s Open Uni­ver­si­ty and nar­rat­ed by Har­ry Shear­er, these fun intro­duc­tions to such philoso­phers as Simone de Beau­voir and Edmund Burke, and such weighty philo­soph­i­cal top­ics as free will and the prob­lem of evil, make chal­leng­ing, abstract con­cepts acces­si­ble to non-philoso­phers. Now the series is back with a new chap­ter, How Did Every­thing Begin?, a sur­vey of sev­er­al the­o­ries of the ori­gins of the uni­verse, from Thomas Aquinas’ philo­soph­i­cal spec­u­la­tions, to Hin­du cos­mol­o­gy; and from the­olo­gian William Paley’s design argu­ment (below), to the the­o­ry of the Big Bang (above).

The two videos here present an inter­est­ing coun­ter­point between the ori­gin the­o­ries of astro­physics and the­ol­o­gy. Though cur­rent-day intel­li­gent design pro­po­nents deny it, there is still much of William Paley’s argu­ment, at least in style, in their expla­na­tions of cre­ation. First pro­pound­ed in his 1802 work Nat­ur­al The­ol­o­gy, the theologian’s famous watch­mak­er analogy—which he extend­ed to the design of the eye, and every­thing else—gave Charles Dar­win much to puz­zle over, though David Hume had sup­pos­ed­ly refut­ed Paley’s argu­ments 50 years ear­li­er. The Big Bang theory—a term cre­at­ed by its fore­most crit­ic Fred Hoyle—offers an entire­ly nat­u­ral­is­tic account of the universe’s ori­gins, one that pre­sup­pos­es no inher­ent pur­pose or design.

As with the pre­vi­ous videos, these are script­ed by the host of the Phi­los­o­phy Bites pod­cast, Nigel War­bur­ton. This time around the videos are nar­rat­ed by Gillian Ander­son, whose voice you may not imme­di­ate­ly rec­og­nize. Rather than sound­ing like Dana Scul­ly, her famous X‑Files char­ac­ter, Ander­son speaks in a British accent, which she slips into eas­i­ly, hav­ing lived in the UK for much of her child­hood and now again as an adult. (You may have seen Ander­son in many of the Eng­lish peri­od dra­mas she has appeared in, or in British crime dra­ma The Fall or Michael Winterbottom’s uproar­i­ous adap­ta­tion of Tris­tram Shandy.)

These fas­ci­nat­ing spec­u­la­tive theories—whether sci­en­tif­ic or mythological—are sure to appeal to fans of the X‑Files, who can per­haps begin to believe again, or remain skep­ti­cal, thanks to Chris Carter’s R‑rated direc­tor’s cut of X‑Files: I Want to Believe, com­ing out this fall.

Watch the remain­ing videos in the series below:

Thomas Aquinas and the First Mover Argu­ment

Hin­du Cre­ation Sto­ries

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2015.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

The His­to­ry of Phi­los­o­phy With­out Any Gaps – Peter Adamson’s Pod­cast Still Going Strong

Free Online Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC.

Albert Einstein Imposes on His First Wife a Cruel List of Marital Demands

Albert Ein­stein pas­sion­ate­ly wooed his first wife Mil­e­va Mar­ic, against his family’s wish­es, and the two had a tur­bu­lent but intel­lec­tu­al­ly rich rela­tion­ship that they record­ed for pos­ter­i­ty in their let­ters. Ein­stein and Maric’s love let­ters have inspired the short film above, My Lit­tle Witch (in Ser­bian, I believe, with Eng­lish sub­ti­tles) and sev­er­al crit­i­cal re-eval­u­a­tions of Einstein’s life and Mar­ic’s influ­ence on his ear­ly thought. Some his­to­ri­ans have even sug­gest­ed that Maric—who was also trained in physics—made con­tri­bu­tions to Einstein’s ear­ly work, a claim hot­ly dis­put­ed and, it seems, poor­ly sub­stan­ti­at­ed.

The letters—written between 1897 and 1903 and only dis­cov­ered in 1987—reveal a wealth of pre­vi­ous­ly unknown detail about Mar­ic and the mar­riage. While the con­tro­ver­sy over Mar­ic’s influ­ence on Ein­stein’s the­o­ries raged among aca­d­e­mics and view­ers of PBS’s con­tro­ver­sial doc­u­men­tary, Einstein’s Wife, a scan­dalous per­son­al item in the let­ters got much bet­ter press. As Ein­stein and Maric’s rela­tion­ship dete­ri­o­rat­ed, and they attempt­ed to scotch tape it togeth­er for the sake of their chil­dren, the avun­cu­lar paci­fist wrote a chill­ing list of “con­di­tions,” in out­line form, that his wife must accept upon his return. Lists of Note tran­scribes them from Wal­ter Isaacson’s biog­ra­phy Ein­stein: His Life and Uni­verse:

CONDITIONS

A. You will make sure:

1. that my clothes and laun­dry are kept in good order;
2. that I will receive my three meals reg­u­lar­ly in my room;
3. that my bed­room and study are kept neat, and espe­cial­ly that my desk is left for my use only.

B. You will renounce all per­son­al rela­tions with me inso­far as they are not com­plete­ly nec­es­sary for social rea­sons. Specif­i­cal­ly, You will forego:

1. my sit­ting at home with you;
2. my going out or trav­el­ling with you.

C. You will obey the fol­low­ing points in your rela­tions with me:

1. you will not expect any inti­ma­cy from me, nor will you reproach me in any way;
2. you will stop talk­ing to me if I request it;
3. you will leave my bed­room or study imme­di­ate­ly with­out protest if I request it.

D. You will under­take not to belit­tle me in front of our chil­dren, either through words or behav­ior.

While it may be unfair to judge anyone’s total char­ac­ter by its most glar­ing defects, there’s no way to read this with­out shud­der­ing. Although Ein­stein tried to pre­serve the mar­riage, once they sep­a­rat­ed for good, he did not lament Mil­e­va’s loss for long. Man­jit Kumar tells us in Quan­tum: Ein­stein Bohr, and the Great Debate about the Nature of Real­i­ty that although “Mil­e­va agreed to his demands and Ein­stein returned”

[I]t could not last. At the end of July, after just three months in Berlin, Mil­e­va and the boys went back to Zurich. As he stood on the plat­form wav­ing good­bye, Ein­stein wept, if not for Mil­e­va and the mem­o­ries of what had been, then for his two depart­ing sons. But with­in a mat­ter of weeks he was hap­pi­ly enjoy­ing liv­ing alone “in my large apart­ment in undi­min­ished tran­quil­i­ty.”

Ein­stein prized his soli­tude great­ly. Anoth­er remark shows his dif­fi­cul­ty with per­son­al rela­tion­ships. While he even­tu­al­ly fell in love with his cousin Elsa and final­ly divorced Mar­ic to mar­ry her in 1919, that mar­riage too was trou­bled. Elsa died in 1936 soon after the cou­ple moved to the U.S. Not long after her death, Ein­stein would write, “I have got­ten used extreme­ly well to life here. I live like a bear in my den… This bear­ish­ness has been fur­ther enhanced by the death of my woman com­rade, who was bet­ter with oth­er peo­ple than I am.”

Einstein’s per­son­al fail­ings might pass by with­out much com­ment if he had not, like his hero Gand­hi, been ele­vat­ed to the sta­tus of a “sec­u­lar saint.” Yet, it is also the per­son­al incon­sis­ten­cies, the weak­ness­es and pet­ty, even incred­i­bly cal­lous moments, that make so many famous fig­ures’ lives com­pelling, if also con­fus­ing. As Ein­stein schol­ar John Stachel says, “Too much of an idol was made of Ein­stein. He’s not an idol—he’s a human, and that’s much more inter­est­ing.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lis­ten as Albert Ein­stein Reads ‘The Com­mon Lan­guage of Sci­ence’ (1941)

The Musi­cal Mind of Albert Ein­stein: Great Physi­cist, Ama­teur Vio­lin­ist and Devo­tee of Mozart

Ein­stein Doc­u­men­tary Offers A Reveal­ing Por­trait of the Great 20th Cen­tu­ry Sci­en­tist

Albert Ein­stein Express­es His Admi­ra­tion for Mahat­ma Gand­hi, in Let­ter and Audio

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC.

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When Albert Einstein & Charlie Chaplin Met and Became Fast Famous Friends (1930)

Pho­to via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

“You do not real­ly under­stand some­thing unless you can explain it to your grand­moth­er,” goes a well-known quote attrib­uted var­i­ous­ly to Albert Ein­stein, Richard Feyn­man, and Ernest Ruther­ford. No mat­ter who said it, “the sen­ti­ment… rings true,” writes Michelle Lav­ery, “for researchers in all dis­ci­plines from par­ti­cle physics to ecopsy­chol­o­gy.” As Feyn­man dis­cov­ered dur­ing his many years of teach­ing, it could be “the mot­to of all pro­fes­sion­al com­mu­ni­ca­tors,” The Guardian’s Rus­sell Gross­man writes, “and espe­cial­ly those who earn a liv­ing com­mu­ni­cat­ing the tricky busi­ness of sci­ence.”

Ein­stein became one of the world’s great sci­ence com­mu­ni­ca­tors by choice, not neces­si­ty, and found ways to explain his com­plex the­o­ries to chil­dren and the elder­ly alike. But per­haps, if he’d had his way, he would rather have avoid­ed words alto­geth­er, and pre­ferred acro­bat­ic feats of silent dar­ing to get his mes­sage across. We might at least con­clude so from his rev­er­ence for the work of Char­lie Chap­lin. Chap­lin was the only per­son Ein­stein want­ed to meet in Cal­i­for­nia dur­ing his sec­ond, 1930–31 vis­it to the U.S., when he was “at the height of his fame,” notes Claire Cock-Starkey at Men­tal Floss, “with news­pa­pers track­ing his every move and aca­d­e­mics clam­or­ing for expla­na­tions of his the­o­ries.”

The admi­ra­tion, of course, was mutu­al. Their first meet­ings hap­pened out­side the press’s scruti­ny, at Uni­ver­sal Stu­dios, “where the pair took a tour and had lunch togeth­er. They hit it off straight away, shar­ing quick wits and curi­ous minds.” In his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, Chap­lin writes that Einstein’s wife Elsa fina­gled an invi­ta­tion to din­ner at Chaplin’s house. And he “was only too hap­py to oblige,” Cock-Starkey writes, arrang­ing an “inti­mate din­ner, at which Elsa regaled him with the sto­ry of when Ein­stein came up with his world-chang­ing the­o­ry, some­time around 1915.”

The two con­tin­ued to cor­re­spond, and the big pub­lic unveil­ing of their friend­ship came when Chap­lin invit­ed Ein­stein to the pre­miere of City Lights in 1931 (see pho­to up top) where the mega-celebri­ties from very dif­fer­ent worlds were greet­ed by reporters, pho­tog­ra­phers, and ador­ing crowds. There are sev­er­al record­ed ver­sions of their con­ver­sa­tion. In one account, Ein­stein expressed bemuse­ment at the cheer­ing, and Chap­lin remarked, “the peo­ple applaud me because every­one under­stands me, and they applaud you because no one under­stands you.”

Chap­lin him­self wrote in his 1933–34 trav­el­ogue, A Come­di­an Sees the World, that one of Einstein’s sons uttered the line, weeks after­ward: “You are pop­u­lar [because] you are under­stood by the mass­es. On the oth­er hand, the professor’s pop­u­lar­i­ty with the mass­es is because he is not under­stood.” Yet anoth­er ver­sion, cir­cu­lat­ing on the Nobel Prize’s Insta­gram and col­lect­ing tens of thou­sands of likes, has the exchange take place in a dia­logue.

Ein­stein: “What I most admire about your art, is your uni­ver­sal­i­ty. You don’t say a word, yet the world under­stands you!”

Chap­lin: “True. But your glo­ry is even greater! The whole world admires you, even though they don’t under­stand a word of what you say.”

What­ev­er they real­ly said to each oth­er, it’s clear Ein­stein saw some­thing in Char­lie Chap­lin worth emu­lat­ing. Chap­lin left his mark on Exis­ten­tial­ist phi­los­o­phy, lend­ing the name of his film Mod­ern Times to Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir’s influ­en­tial jour­nal, Les Temps Mod­ernes. He left a lega­cy on Beat poet­ry, lend­ing the name City Lights to Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s infa­mous San Fran­cis­co book­store and pub­lish­er. And it seems he also maybe had some small effect on physics, or on the most famous of physi­cists, who might have har­bored a secret ambi­tion to be a silent film comedian—or to com­mu­ni­cate, at least, with the uni­ver­sal effec­tive­ness of one as skilled as Char­lie Chap­lin, favorite of genius­es and grand­moth­ers (and genius grand­moth­ers) every­where.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2020.

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

60+ Free Char­lie Chap­lin Films Online

Einstein’s The­o­ry of Rel­a­tiv­i­ty Explained in One of the Ear­li­est Sci­ence Films Ever Made (1923)

Hear Albert Ein­stein Read “The Com­mon Lan­guage of Sci­ence” (1941)

The Char­lie Chap­lin Archive Opens, Putting Online 30,000 Pho­tos & Doc­u­ments from the Life of the Icon­ic Film Star

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC.

Leonardo da Vinci’s Notebooks, Separated for 400 Years, Have Been Reunited and Put Online

Leonar­do da Vin­ci was a painter, draughts­man, engi­neer, sci­en­tist, the­o­rist, sculp­tor, and archi­tect, to pro­vide only his most wide­ly agreed-upon list of occu­pa­tions. It is he, more than any oth­er sin­gle fig­ure, who comes to mind when we think of the ide­al of the “Renais­sance man.” Though con­sid­ered rather less prac­ti­cal today than it was in fif­teenth-cen­tu­ry Italy, the relent­less quest­ing for both sci­en­tif­ic knowl­edge and artis­tic per­fec­tion implied by that title has nev­er entire­ly ceased to appeal. For aspir­ing mod­ern Renais­sance men, one of the most endur­ing sources of inspi­ra­tion remains Leonar­do’s own note­books, full of back­wards-writ­ten explo­rations of ideas both real­ized and unre­al­ized that move unpre­dictably from one intel­lec­tu­al domain to anoth­er.

That last qual­i­ty seems to have dis­pleased the sculp­tor Pom­peo Leoni, who even­tu­al­ly came into pos­ses­sion of Leonar­do’s note­books after they were inher­it­ed by his last stu­dent Francesco Melzi. Leoni “dis­mount­ed and cut the folios, sep­a­rat­ing the mate­ri­als into two albums accord­ing
to his own judge­ment,” notes the Ital­ian Embassy in Lon­don, “the larg­er por­tion for tech­ni­cal and sci­en­tif­ic top­ics,” and the small­er for “Leonardo’s artis­tic and fig­u­ra­tive work­ings.”

In the ear­ly sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry, Leoni’s son-in-law sold the for­mer album, now known as the Codex Atlanti­cus, to a count who in turn donat­ed it to the Veneran­da Bib­liote­ca Ambrosiana; the lat­ter end­ed up in Eng­land’s Roy­al Col­lec­tion by 1670 or so. Only now have they been reunit­ed, thanks to a project called Leonar­dothe­ka.

The cul­mi­na­tion of a decade’s work involv­ing the Veneran­da Bib­liote­ca Ambrosiana as well as the Bib­liote­ca Leonar­diana and the Roy­al Col­lec­tion Trust, Leonar­dothe­ka dig­i­tal­ly reunites those albums after four cen­turies apart. Such a task also entailed the recon­struc­tion of 50 long-sun­dered indi­vid­ual pages and their replace­ment into their orig­i­nal con­text. The note­books com­bined “decades of anatom­i­cal stud­ies, fly­ing machines, land­scapes, and gro­cery-list-adja­cent mus­ings, all tan­gled togeth­er the way Leonar­do’s mind may have worked,” writes Anas­ta­sia Scott at Dis­cov­er. Yet he’d “like­ly nev­er intend­ed to sep­a­rate art from sci­ence in the first place. A sin­gle page might hold a machine, a horse, and a poem, and Leoni sev­ered con­nec­tions the artist had made on pur­pose.” With those con­nec­tions restored, we here in the twen­ty-twen­ties — a time plagued by its own doubts about the rela­tion­ship between what we now call “human­i­ties” and “STEM” — can see once again how a real Renais­sance mind worked. Enter the Leonar­dothe­ka here.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed con­tent:

A Com­plete Dig­i­ti­za­tion of Leonar­do Da Vinci’s Codex Atlanti­cus, the Largest Col­lec­tion of His Draw­ings & Writ­ings

Leonar­do da Vinci’s Vision­ary Inven­tions Ren­dered in 3D Ani­ma­tion: Heli­copters, Robot­ic Knights, The First Ever Div­ing Suit & More

Why Did Leonar­do da Vin­ci Write Back­wards? A Look Into the Ulti­mate Renais­sance Man’s “Mir­ror Writ­ing”

The Doo­dles in Leonar­do da Vinci’s Man­u­scripts Con­tain His Ground­break­ing The­o­ries on the Laws of Fric­tion, Sci­en­tists Dis­cov­er

Leonar­do da Vinci’s Hand­writ­ten Resume (Cir­ca 1482)

Leonar­do da Vinci’s To-Do List from 1490: The Plan of a Renais­sance Man

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Before Bill Nye, There Was Julius Sumner Miller: Watch Complete Episodes of His Classic Science Show, Why Is It So?, Free Online (1962–73)

“We are approach­ing a dark­ness in the land. Boys and girls are emerg­ing from every lev­el of school with cer­tifi­cates and degrees, but they can’t read, write or cal­cu­late. We don’t have aca­d­e­m­ic hon­esty or intel­lec­tu­al rig­or.” That quote may sound like a famil­iar lament today, but it’s actu­al­ly drawn from an inter­view con­duct­ed about half a cen­tu­ry ago with the physi­cist and tele­vi­sion host Julius Sum­n­er Miller. If that name sounds famil­iar to you, there’s a fair chance you’re an Aus­tralian who grew up between the six­ties and the eight­ies — and it’s hard­ly impos­si­ble that, thanks to his pro­gram Why Is It So?, you went on to pur­sue a career in sci­ence or engi­neer­ing.

Gen­er­a­tions of young view­ers down under and else­where learned from Why Is It So? that physics and its prin­ci­ples could be fun. Even if you weren’t among them at the time, you can now watch full episodes of the show uploaded to YouTube by ABC, the Aus­tralian Broad­cast­ing Cor­po­ra­tion.

As you may notice after just a few sec­onds of lis­ten­ing to him, Miller him­self was Amer­i­can. The Mass­a­chu­setts-born son of immi­grants from Latvia and Lithua­nia, he stud­ied physics at Boston Uni­ver­si­ty and there­after taught and per­formed research at var­i­ous insti­tu­tions (befriend­ing Albert Ein­stein along the way) before tak­ing a long-term posi­tion at El Camino Col­lege in Tor­rance, Cal­i­for­nia in 1952.


Miller’s pop­u­lar­i­ty at El Camino, the school’s prox­im­i­ty to Hol­ly­wood, and tele­vi­sion’s rapid expan­sion into a mass medi­um led to his launch­ing Why Is It So? on KNXT in Los Ange­les in 1959. By the mid-six­ties, he was also explain­ing sci­en­tif­ic phe­nom­e­na on Dis­ney’s Mick­ey Mouse Club, Great Moments in Sci­ence, and Sci­ence and Its Mag­ic, as well as on Steve Allen’s late-night talk show. He made his debut on Aus­tralian tele­vi­sion when the Uni­ver­si­ty of Syd­ney brought him out as a vis­it­ing lec­tur­er. The appear­ance went wrong when he could­n’t per­form his stan­dard trick of dri­ving a drink­ing straw through a pota­to, but what it nev­er­the­less got him — apart from an office filled with the domes­tic straws he’d jok­ing­ly crit­i­cized on-air — was a new home for Why Is It So? on ABC.

ABC has so far made avail­able sev­en full broad­casts orig­i­nal­ly aired between the ear­ly six­ties and the ear­ly sev­en­ties. Despite their black-and-white pro­duc­tion and lack of visu­al effects, they hold up well today in both edu­ca­tion­al and enter­tain­ment val­ue. How­ev­er engag­ing his per­son­al­i­ty as what we would now call a sci­ence com­mu­ni­ca­tor, it seems that “Miller could be a ter­ror in the class­room,” accord­ing to his Los Ange­les Times obit­u­ary from 1987, “intol­er­ant of mis­spelled words or mis­placed punc­tu­a­tion” and insis­tent that “most fac­ul­ty were not rigid enough and that stu­dents were not learn­ing enough.” He’d hard­ly be pleased with what’s hap­pened to intel­lec­tu­al stan­dards in the near­ly four decades since his death, but he’d sure­ly appre­ci­ate that his teach­ing con­tin­ues to reach “every­body ages four to 94,” as he liked to describe his audi­ence. Age, nation­al­i­ty, and even cre­den­tials did­n’t mat­ter; what count­ed was gen­uine curios­i­ty and the will­ing­ness to pur­sue it, whether in the class­room or the liv­ing room.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Pio­neer­ing Physics TV Show The Mechan­i­cal Uni­verse Is Now on YouTube: 52 Com­plete Episodes from Cal­tech

Watch a Young Carl Sagan Appear in His First TV Doc­u­men­tary, The Vio­lent Uni­verse (1969)

Richard Feyn­man Enthu­si­as­ti­cal­ly Explains How to Think Like a Physi­cist in His Series Fun to Imag­ine (1983)

The Great­est Shot in Tele­vi­sion: Sci­ence His­to­ri­an James Burke Had One Chance to Nail This Scene … and Nailed It

The Offi­cial Mis­ter Rogers’ Neigh­bor­hood YouTube Chan­nel Goes Live: Watch Com­plete Episodes, Includ­ing the Very First

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

How a Volcanic Eruption Helped Unleash the Black Death in Europe in 1347

The flap of a but­ter­fly­’s wings on one side of the world can cause a hur­ri­cane on the oth­er, or so they say. If we take it a bit too lit­er­al­ly, that old obser­va­tion may make us won­der what a hur­ri­cane can cause. Or if not a hur­ri­cane, how about anoth­er kind of large-scale nat­ur­al dis­as­ter? If new find­ings by researchers from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cam­bridge and the Leib­niz Insti­tute for the His­to­ry and Cul­ture of East­ern Europe are to be believed, a vol­cano’s erup­tion helped lead to the out­break and spread of the Black Death across Europe in the four­teenth cen­tu­ry. In the video above, British his­to­ry and envi­ron­men­tal sci­ence spe­cial­ist Paul Whitewick explains the evi­dence on a vis­it to one of the aban­doned medieval vil­lages strick­en by that plague.

As Cam­bridge’s Sarah Collins writes, “the evi­dence sug­gests that a vol­canic erup­tion — or clus­ter of erup­tions — around 1345 caused annu­al tem­per­a­tures to drop for con­sec­u­tive years due to the haze from vol­canic ash and gas­es, which in turn caused crops to fail across the Mediter­ranean region.” Des­per­ate Ital­ian city-states thus fell back on trad­ing with grain pro­duc­ers around the Black Sea. “This cli­mate-dri­ven change in long-dis­tance trade routes helped avoid famine, but in addi­tion to life-sav­ing food, the ships were car­ry­ing the dead­ly bac­teri­um that ulti­mate­ly caused the Black Death, enabling the first and dead­liest wave of the sec­ond plague pan­dem­ic to gain a foothold in Europe.”

An impor­tant clue came in the form of “infor­ma­tion con­tained in tree rings from the Span­ish Pyre­nees, where con­sec­u­tive ‘Blue Rings’ point to unusu­al­ly cold and wet sum­mers in 1345, 1346 and 1347 across much of south­ern Europe.” Records of lunar eclipses and lay­ers of sul­fur locked into ice cores dat­ing to about the same time fur­ther height­en the prob­a­bil­i­ty of vol­canic activ­i­ty. Key to tying these dis­parate pieces of evi­dence togeth­er are changes in trade routes: on a map, Whitewick traces “move­ment increas­ing along these cor­ri­dors, grain imports to the mar­itime republics of Venice and Genoa from north of the Black Sea and beyond, in 1347.” Accord­ing to writ­ten records, the Black Death came to Britain the fol­low­ing year, arriv­ing in “a coun­try already shaped by failed har­vests, weak­ened com­mu­ni­ties, and ris­ing move­ment of peo­ple and goods.”

Some com­mu­ni­ties weath­ered the plague and, in the full­ness of time, even bounced back; oth­ers, like the vil­lage amid whose remains Whitewick stands, prac­ti­cal­ly van­ished alto­geth­er. “This was a glob­al prob­lem that became very much a local one,” he says, under­scor­ing its rev­e­la­tion of the risk fac­tors present even in the ear­ly stages of what we now call glob­al­iza­tion. “A vol­canic erup­tion thou­sands of miles away altered cli­mate pat­terns, and that cli­mate reshaped har­vest and trade, and trade car­ried dis­ease. And here, in the qui­et Eng­lish fields, the con­se­quences have set­tled into the ground:” not quite as poet­ic an image as the but­ter­fly and the hur­ri­cane, grant­ed, but hard­ly less rel­e­vant to our own world for it.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­to­ry of the Plague: Every Major Epi­dem­ic in an Ani­mat­ed Map

A 1665 Adver­tise­ment Promis­es a “Famous and Effec­tu­al” Cure for the Great Plague

The Strange Cos­tumes of the Plague Doc­tors Who Treat­ed 17th Cen­tu­ry Vic­tims of the Bubon­ic Plague

How the Sur­vivors of Pom­peii Escaped Mount Vesu­vius’ Dead­ly Erup­tion: A TED-Ed Ani­ma­tion Tells the Sto­ry

The 1883 Kraka­toa Explo­sion Made the Loud­est Sound in His­to­ry — So Loud It Trav­eled Around the World Four Times

1,000 Years of Medieval Euro­pean His­to­ry in 20 Min­utes

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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