Why Inventing Color TV Was So Difficult

Many who read this will remem­ber watch­ing tele­vi­sion on a black-and-white set at some point in their lives. Few­er will remem­ber doing so because only black-and-white sets exist­ed. Of course, your own expe­ri­ence will depend upon your coun­try of ori­gin. The Unit­ed States began the tran­si­tion to col­or tele­vi­sion in 1953, and more than half of its pop­u­la­tion owned col­or sets less than twen­ty years there­after. France’s sta­tions start­ed to change over in 1967, and the last one did so in 1983. South Korea, where I live, start­ed its own reg­u­lar col­or broad­casts in 1980, though at that point, those from the Amer­i­can Forces Net­work, Japan, and even North Korea could already be tuned in for years.

Today we all take col­or TV for grant­ed, but as the Pri­mal Space video above explains, its inven­tion was no sim­ple mat­ter. Still, it occurred much ear­li­er than most of us would imag­ine. In 1925, Scot­tish inven­tor John Logie Baird came up with the first tele­vi­sion, which involved pass­ing light through holes in a spin­ning disc onto a pho­to­elec­tric cell for trans­mis­sion through cables or radio waves. This sys­tem could only reg­is­ter the bright­ness of the light, pro­duc­ing a black-and-white image. But the mech­a­nism itself sug­gest­ed a means of intro­duc­ing col­or: enlarge the disc, add sep­a­rate sets of holes for red, green, and blue, and repro­duce a frame of each in quick, cycli­cal suc­ces­sion at the oth­er end, tak­ing advan­tage of the human eye­’s ten­den­cy to col­lapse them into a sin­gle image.

Baird first demon­strat­ed his col­or tele­vi­sion sys­tem in 1928. Though impres­sive, it also looked unlike­ly to per­form at a scale that could pro­duce a sharp, smooth mov­ing pic­ture. Oth­er engi­neers saw more tele­vi­su­al promise in the tech­nol­o­gy of the cath­ode ray tube, or CRT, which Japan­ese inven­tor Ken­jiro Takayana­gi had already har­nessed for his own black-and-white mechan­i­cal tele­vi­sion in the year before. The key com­po­nent was the icono­scope invent­ed by Vladimir Zworykin in 1933. “Essen­tial­ly the world’s first video cam­era,” it employed an inter­nal elec­tron gun to “scan” a cap­tured image into a trans­mis­si­ble elec­tri­cal sig­nal. Still, the ques­tion remained: how to do it in col­or?

Enter the Radio Cor­po­ra­tion of Amer­i­ca, whose abbre­vi­at­ed name more than a few of us will remem­ber from our child­hood TV sets. Hav­ing devel­oped a video cam­era “that took the incom­ing light and fil­tered it through spe­cial prisms to sep­a­rate the red, green, and blue,” con­vert­ing each into its own sig­nal, RCA then faced the prob­lem of deliv­er­ing the result to view­ers at home. None of the more than five mil­lion black-and-white sets already extant in the U.S. could receive those three sig­nals at all. The solu­tion involved using one elec­tron gun per col­or, each of whose sig­nals would be encod­ed so as to be hid­den in the exist­ing black-and-white tele­vi­sion sig­nal and then decod­ed by col­or sets. Con­sumers may not have tak­en up the tech­nol­o­gy all at once, but those who did in time for The Wiz­ard of Oz’s first broad­cast in 1956 sure­ly under­stood that col­or TV had a future.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch a Tele­vi­sion Sta­tion Switch From Black & White to Col­or for First Time (1967)

How Tech­ni­col­or Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Cin­e­ma with Sur­re­al, Elec­tric Col­ors & Changed How We See Our World

Watch David Bowie Per­form “Star­man” on Top of the Pops: Vot­ed the Great­est Music Per­for­mance Ever on the BBC (1972)

Dis­cov­er the Lost Ear­ly Com­put­er Art of Telidon, Canada’s TV Pro­to-Inter­net from the 1970s

When Movies Came on Vinyl: The Ear­ly-80s Engi­neer­ing Mar­vel and Mar­ket­ing Dis­as­ter That Was RCA’s Selec­taVi­sion

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

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 Phone Addiction Keeps You from Achieving a Productive “Flow State”

If you have an iPhone, try push­ing its side but­ton three times in a row. Just like mag­ic, the screen should turn from col­or into black-and-white, or rather grayscale. (To do the same on an Android phone, you’ll have to dive into set­tings, then “acces­si­bil­i­ty,” “vision enhance­ments,” and “col­or cor­rec­tion.”) Why would you want that in the first place? As Har­vard Kennedy School and Har­vard Busi­ness School pro­fes­sor Arthur C. Brooks explains in the Big Think video above, “one of the ways that you can actu­al­ly get less hooked by social media, or any screen-based tech­nol­o­gy, is by turn­ing off the col­or.” When you get only black, white, and the shades of gray in between, “you will care less about your screen, and you will look at it less.”

This may ring true to those of us who remem­ber pure­ly mono­chro­mat­ic cell­phones, and how lit­tle time we spent star­ing at them. But no mat­ter your gen­er­a­tion, Brooks has plen­ty of use­ful advice about how to break the depen­den­cy on your phone from which, as a twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry inter­net user, you almost cer­tain­ly suf­fer.

“You notice when some­body is addict­ed to hero­in, because it’s not that com­mon for ordi­nary peo­ple,” he says. “You don’t notice when some­body’s addict­ed to their phone, because lit­er­al­ly every­body is addict­ed to their phones.” There­fore, we could all ben­e­fit from turn­ing off noti­fi­ca­tions, set­ting defined “tech times,” exer­cis­ing with­out our devices, and going on mul­ti-day med­i­ta­tion retreats — though we may have to work up to that last one.

The func­tion­al phone addict may believe that all his dai­ly scrolling may not have that much of a neg­a­tive impact on his life, and even that it helps him unwind. What he does­n’t real­ize, in Brooks’ view, is the extent to which dig­i­tal dis­trac­tions keep him out of what psy­chol­o­gist Mihaly Csik­szent­mi­ha­lyi called “flow.” (These com­ments come around the 27:06 mark.) Flow hap­pens “when you’re involved immer­sive­ly in some­thing, and hours turn to min­utes. You lose track of time. It’s intense­ly plea­sur­able,” almost “like a state of Bud­dhist med­i­ta­tion.” Con­scious­ly or uncon­scious­ly, we use our phones and oth­er dig­i­tal devices in a way that pre­vents flow, “mul­ti­task­ing” between numer­ous tasks and dis­trac­tions, nev­er pay­ing sus­tained atten­tion to any one thing. At the root of this impulse is a fear of bore­dom, which must be endured in order to accom­plish any­thing mean­ing­ful. The irony of our new­found abil­i­ty to evade bore­dom every moment is that, if we do so, the whole of life turns out to be pret­ty bor­ing.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How to Enter a ‘Flow State’ on Com­mand: Peak Per­for­mance Mind Hack Explained in 7 Min­utes

The Sur­pris­ing Pow­er of Bore­dom: It Lets You Con­front Big Ques­tions & Give Life Mean­ing

How to Enter Flow State, Increase Your Abil­i­ty to Con­cen­trate, and Let Your Ego Fall Away : An Ani­mat­ed Primer

Why Smart Peo­ple Feel Like Frauds: The Psy­chol­o­gy of Impos­tor Syn­drome and Its Hid­den Ben­e­fits

How to Get into a Cre­ative “Flow State”: A Short Mas­ter­class

Lyn­da Bar­ry on How the Smart­phone Is Endan­ger­ing Three Ingre­di­ents of Cre­ativ­i­ty: Lone­li­ness, Uncer­tain­ty & Bore­dom

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.

Why AI Companies Are Buying—And Then Destroying—Old Books

We’ve long joked about delay­ing bed­time in order to read the entire inter­net, but the prospect of actu­al­ly doing so does­n’t sound as appeal­ing as it used to. An ever-grow­ing pro­por­tion of text online, we may sense, has­n’t been writ­ten by humans, but gen­er­at­ed by arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence. One solu­tion is to return to read­ing on paper, and beyond that, spend­ing our time only with books pub­lished before the advent — and thus uncor­rupt­ed by the out­put — of large lan­guage mod­els. Iron­i­cal­ly, that’s what large lan­guage mod­els them­selves have had to do, and in order to ensure them a steady diet of man­made text, their own­ers are resort­ing to con­tro­ver­sial­ly destruc­tive meth­ods.

Sus­pi­cions first arose when book deal­ers noticed a spike in their income due to large orders from mys­te­ri­ous buy­ers for titles they assumed they’d nev­er unload. Books on home oxy­gen treat­ment in Italy, mar­riage lit­i­ga­tion in medieval Eng­land, Texas civ­il pro­ce­dure in the twen­ty-tens, Swedish com­e­dy in the six­ties: these enti­ties bought them all, and for what­ev­er price the sell­er hap­pened to be ask­ing.

404 Media reporter Emanuel Maiberg tracked the path of one such book, which even­tu­al­ly wound up at a Las Vegas scan­ning facil­i­ty run by Ama­zon. Though under­gird­ed by advanced tech­nol­o­gy, the work done there is sim­ple: dig­i­tize as many books as pos­si­ble, then destroy them.

“In order to scan them real­ly fast, they cut the spines off the books and fed the pages to the scan­ner,” Maiberg explained to NPR. Many are tech­ni­cal­ly rare, albeit eso­teric obscu­ri­ties like van­i­ty pub­li­ca­tions and old instruc­tion man­u­als rather than first-edi­tion clas­sics. Humans may not val­ue them, but LLMs do: their con­sump­tion fore­stalls “a prob­lem called mod­el col­lapse, where if an AI trains on AI train­ing data, it gets worse.” Ama­zon and Anthrop­ic have both been found to use the book-sac­ri­fic­ing method to har­vest text, but every com­pa­ny with mod­els to train needs a solu­tion. All this makes for “an unusu­al­ly on-the-nose exam­ple of dig­i­tal tech­nol­o­gy devour­ing lit­er­ary cul­ture,” as the Wall Street Jour­nal’s Melis­sa Korn puts it. But when you real­ly have read the entire inter­net, per­haps extreme mea­sures are inevitable.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the Inter­net Archive Dig­i­tizes 3,500 Books a Day–the Hard Way, One Page at a Time

Libraries & Archivists Are Dig­i­tiz­ing 480,000 Books Pub­lished in 20th Cen­tu­ry That Are Secret­ly in the Pub­lic Domain

How Will AI Change the World?: A Cap­ti­vat­ing Ani­ma­tion Explores the Promise & Per­ils of Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence

How to Read Many More Books in a Year: Watch a Short Doc­u­men­tary Fea­tur­ing Some of the World’s Most Beau­ti­ful Book­stores

How 99% of Ancient Lit­er­a­ture Was Lost

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.

Dolly Parton’s “Jolene” Slowed Down to 33 RPM Sounds Great and Takes on New, Unexpected Meanings (RIP)

Note: We were sad to see the news that Dol­ly Par­ton passed away. Today we are bring­ing back one of our favorite Dol­ly Par­ton posts. She will be missed.

The Wal­rus isDol­ly Par­ton?

Not every record yields gold when played back­wards or spun more slow­ly than rec­om­mend­ed, but a 45 of Parton’s 1973 hit “Jolene” played at 33 RPM not only sounds won­der­ful, it also man­ages to reframe the nar­ra­tive.

As Andrea Den­Hoed notes in The New York­er, “Slow Ass Jolene,” above, trans­forms Parton’s “baby-high sopra­no” into some­thing deep, soul­ful and seem­ing­ly, male.

In its orig­i­nal ver­sion, the much-cov­ered “Jolene” is a straight up woman-to-woman chest-bar­ing. Our nar­ra­tor knows her man is obsessed with the sexy, auburn-haired Jolene, to the point where he talks about her in his sleep.

Appar­ent­ly she also knows bet­ter than to raise the sub­ject with him. Instead, she appeals to Jolene’s sense of mer­cy:

You could have your choice of men

But I could nev­er love again

He’s the only one for me, Jolene

The song is some­what auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal, though the sit­u­a­tion was nowhere near as dire as lis­ten­ers might assume. In an inter­view with NPR, Par­ton recalled a red-haired bank teller who devel­oped a big crush on her hus­band when she was a young bride:

And he just loved going to the bank because she paid him so much atten­tion. It was kin­da like a run­ning joke between us — when I was say­ing, ‘Hell, you’re spend­ing a lot of time at the bank. I don’t believe we’ve got that kind of mon­ey.’ So it’s real­ly an inno­cent song all around, but sounds like a dread­ful one. 

For the record, the teller’s name wasn’t Jolene.

Jolene was a pret­ty lit­tle girl who attend­ed an ear­ly Par­ton con­cert. Par­ton was so tak­en with the child, and her unusu­al name, that she resolved to write a song about her.

Yes, the kid had red hair and green eyes.

Wouldn’t it be wild if she grew up to be a bank teller?

I digress…

In the orig­i­nal ver­sion, the irre­sistible cho­rus where­in the soon-to-be-spurned par­ty invokes Jolene’s name again and again is plain­tive and fierce.

In the slow ass ver­sion, it’s plain­tive and sad.

The pain is the same, but the sit­u­a­tion is much less straight­for­ward, thanks to blur­ri­er gen­der lines.

Par­ton told NPR that women are “always threat­ened by oth­er women, peri­od.”

Jolene’s prodi­gious fem­i­nine assets could also prove wor­ri­some to a gay man whose bisex­u­al lover’s eye is prone to wan­der.

Or maybe the singer and his man live in a place where same-sex unions are frowned on. Per­haps the singer’s man craves the com­fort of a more social­ly accept­able domes­tic sit­u­a­tion.

Or per­haps Jolene is one hot female-iden­ti­fied toma­to, and as far as the singer’s man’s con­cerned, his pas­tor and his granny can go to hell! Jolene’s the only one for him.

Or, as one wag­gish Youtube com­menter suc­cinct­ly put it, “Jolene bet­ter stay the hell away from Roy Orbi­son’s man!”

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

I’m beg­ging of you please don’t take my man

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

Please don’t take him just because you can

Your beau­ty is beyond com­pare

With flam­ing locks of auburn hair

With ivory skin and eyes of emer­ald green

Your smile is like a breath of spring

Your voice is soft like sum­mer rain

And I can­not com­pete with you, Jolene

He talks about you in his sleep

There’s noth­ing I can do to keep

From cry­ing when he calls your name, Jolene

And I can eas­i­ly under­stand

How you could eas­i­ly take my man

But you don’t know what he means to me, Jolene

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

I’m beg­ging of you please don’t take my man

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

Please don’t take him just because you can

You could have your choice of men

But I could nev­er love again

He’s the only one for me, Jolene

I had to have this talk with you

My hap­pi­ness depends on you

And what­ev­er you decide to do, Jolene

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

I’m beg­ging of you please don’t take my man

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

Please don’t take him even though you can

Jolene, Jolene

via @WFMU

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2018.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Feel Strange­ly Nos­tal­gic as You Hear Clas­sic Songs Reworked to Sound as If They’re Play­ing in an Emp­ty Shop­ping Mall: David Bowie, Toto, Ah-ha & More

Hear Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” Shift­ed from Minor to Major Key, and Radiohead’s “Creep” Moved from Major to Minor

R.E.M.’s “Los­ing My Reli­gion” Reworked from Minor to Major Scale

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

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Discover the Mundaneum, an Early 20th-Century “Internet” That Put the World’s Knowledge on Millions of Index Cards

Pitch to friends or fam­i­ly the idea of a trip to Mons, Bel­gium to vis­it the Mun­da­neum, and you may be met with a less-than-enthu­si­as­tic recep­tion. That’s unfor­tu­nate, since such an expe­ri­ence could fun­da­men­tal­ly change the way they regard tech­nol­o­gy they use every day. Though its name may seem to promise unre­lieved dull­ness today, the Mun­da­neum arose out of enor­mous high-tech ambi­tions. The idea behind it, as con­ceived by Bel­gian lawyers Paul Otlet and Hen­ri La Fontaine, was to gath­er, clas­si­fy, cen­tral­ize, and make uni­ver­sal­ly avail­able all human knowl­edge. This may sound famil­iar to any­one who’s used the inter­net, but it was a rather bold­er propo­si­tion at the turn of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry.

Otlet and La Fontaine’s “city of knowl­edge” may not have been ful­ly real­iz­able at that time, but tech­nol­o­gy had made it imag­in­able. The Dewey Dec­i­mal Sys­tem, with its stan­dard­ized card cat­a­logs, had been around since 1876. Start­ing in 1895, Otlet adapt­ed that basic tool to a far larg­er project: the Mun­da­neum took shape as a vast paper archive. Mil­lions of index cards, each record­ing bib­li­o­graph­ic details about a sin­gle book, arti­cle, or doc­u­ment, were filed away in row upon row of cat­a­log draw­ers. (See image below.)

“Otlet made this card cen­tral to his sys­tem,” writes Sid­ney Perkowitz at JSTOR. “Aim­ing to cap­ture every book ever pub­lished, the Mun­da­neum stored bib­li­o­graph­ic data for books under the UDC [Uni­ver­sal Dec­i­mal Clas­si­fi­ca­tion], along with mag­a­zine arti­cles, images, and more on over 15 mil­lion cards crammed into cat­a­log draw­ers.” Orig­i­nal­ly housed in Brus­sels’ Cinquan­te­naire Palace, the Mun­da­neum was meant to get its own build­ing designed by the for­ward-think­ing Le Cor­busier by the end of the nine­teen-twen­ties. Alas, it was nev­er built, and after the Nazi inva­sion of 1940, the Mun­da­neum was scrapped for a Third Reich art exhi­bi­tion.

Dis­cus­sions of the Mun­da­neum in our time often high­light what Otlet (1868–1944), despite the pro­jec­t’s many tribu­la­tions, even­tu­al­ly envi­sioned as “a glob­al ‘réseau’ or net­work of ‘elec­tric tele­scopes.’ These ear­ly work­sta­tions were to be linked to the Mun­da­neum by tele­phone and the new tech­nol­o­gy of tele­vi­sion. A user would phone in a query, and the answer in a book or oth­er source would appear dis­played on a per­son­al screen, which could be split to show mul­ti­ple results.” Con­vinced that all homes would even­tu­al­ly have access to the net­work, he con­sid­ered even the pos­si­bil­i­ty of “data shar­ing and social inter­ac­tions among its users.” This dream of the inter­net avant la tech­nolo­gie is now enshrined at the Mun­da­neum muse­um, which is open five days a week. Alter­na­tive­ly, you can point your elec­tric tele­scope to its online cat­a­log any time.

Image by Zin­neke, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

via JSTOR

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Rise and Fall of the Great Library of Alexan­dria: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

The First Music Stream­ing Ser­vice Was Invent­ed in 1881: Dis­cov­er the Théâtro­phone

Mark Twain Pre­dicts the Inter­net in 1898: Read His Sci-Fi Crime Sto­ry, “From The ‘Lon­don Times’ in 1904”

Meet the Syn­topi­con: The Ambi­tious Index That Tried to Orga­nize All of West­ern Thought (1952)

What the Entire Inter­net Looked Like in 1973: An Old Map Gets Found in a Pile of Research Papers

Do All Roads Lead to Phi­los­o­phy on Wikipedia?: They Do About 97.3% of the Time

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.

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.

When the US Mail Was Delivered Underground at 35 MPH Through a Network of Pneumatic Tubes (1893–1953)

Twen­ty years ago, Unit­ed States sen­a­tor Ted Stevens drew long-last­ing online ridicule by describ­ing the inter­net as “a series of tubes.” While some com­men­ta­tors not­ed that the anal­o­gy was­n’t quite as out­landish as it seemed, most react­ed with noth­ing more than amused baf­fle­ment. Where had Stevens come up with that image? Giv­en that he was born in 1923, per­haps he was draw­ing on mem­o­ries of a tech­no­log­i­cal won­der of his child­hood: the under­ground pneu­mat­ic sys­tems through which mail was deliv­ered in major Amer­i­can cities from the eigh­teen-nineties until the ear­ly nine­teen-fifties, whose sto­ry is told in the It’s His­to­ry video above.

Such series of tubes entered ser­vice in Lon­don, Paris, and Berlin in the mid-nine­teenth cen­tu­ry. In 1893, Philadel­phia became the first Amer­i­can city to get one, thanks to the advo­ca­cy of tech­no­log­i­cal­ly mind­ed depart­ment store mag­nate-turned-Post­mas­ter Gen­er­al John Wana­mak­er. At the inau­gu­ra­tion, writes Hid­den City’s Har­ry Kyr­i­akodis, Wana­mak­er “placed a Bible wrapped in an Amer­i­can flag into a can­is­ter that went fly­ing (under­ground) to the Cen­tral Post Office with a loud ‘whish’.” Philadel­phi­a’s net­work expand­ed apace, even­tu­al­ly includ­ing near­ly twen­ty miles of tun­nels, and “New York City, Boston, Chica­go, and St. Louis adopt­ed sim­i­lar deliv­ery sys­tems by 1898, all oper­at­ed by the Post Office Depart­ment.”

Oper­at­ed at a seri­ous loss, that is: when the U.S. got involved in World War I, the Post Office sus­pend­ed pneu­mat­ic ser­vice to con­serve resources. Only in the twen­ties did the tubes start whish­ing again in parts of New York and Boston, whose high vol­umes of mail could poten­tial­ly jus­ti­fy the oper­a­tion. In fact, the sheer amount of mail even­tu­al­ly got to be too much for the steel cap­sules and the cast-iron tun­nels through which com­pressed air pushed them. As retired U.S. Postal Inspec­tor Robert A. Cohen explains it in his his­to­ry of these sys­tems, “It takes a cer­tain amount of time for a gal­lon of liq­uid to trav­el through a fun­nel. Two gal­lons take twice as long to pass through. The val­ue of the Pneu­mat­ic Tube Ser­vice decreased as mail vol­ume increased.”

The pro­lif­er­a­tion of auto­mo­biles and the expan­sion of their sup­port­ing infra­struc­ture dealt an even more seri­ous blow: after World War II, deliv­er­ing mail on the roads had clear­ly become more effi­cient than doing it under­ground. Some “rock­e­teers,” as the sys­tem’s oper­a­tors were called, stuck it out until Decem­ber 12, 1953, when pneu­mat­ic mail ser­vice was offi­cial­ly sus­pend­ed all across the coun­try.

This marked the end of an era, espe­cial­ly for the rock­e­teers said to have used the net­work to sur­rep­ti­tious­ly receive orders from their favorite sand­wich shops. Remem­ber­ing Ted Stevens’ noto­ri­ous remark, it’s tempt­ing to describe the series of tubes that were pneu­mat­ic mail deliv­ery sys­tems as an ear­ly ver­sion of the inter­net — and even more so it was already get­ting peo­ple hooked on food deliv­ery.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Steam­punk Clocks of 19th-Cen­tu­ry Paris: Dis­cov­er the Inge­nious Sys­tem That Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Time­keep­ing in the 1880s

What’s Under Lon­don? Dis­cov­er London’s For­bid­den Under­world

How Did Roman Aque­ducts Work?: The Most Impres­sive Achieve­ment of Ancient Rome’s Infra­struc­ture, Explained

An Archi­tect Breaks Down the Design of New York City Sub­way Sta­tions, from the Old­est to Newest

Futur­ist from 1901 Describes the World of 2001: Opera by Tele­phone, Free Col­lege & Pneu­mat­ic Tubes Aplen­ty

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 the Bird Sound Effects in Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds Were Created with a Pioneering Electronic Instrument, the Trautonium

Alfred Hitch­cock­’s The Birds was nom­i­nat­ed for an Acad­e­my Award for Best Spe­cial Effects, though view­ers raised on more recent Hol­ly­wood spec­ta­cles would hard­ly find its mech­a­nized and opti­cal­ly print­ed avian attack­ers con­vinc­ing. Still, the pic­ture as a whole has retained its eerie, omi­nous pow­er over the last six decades, and a decent amount of the cred­it for that goes to an aspect that has­n’t dat­ed at all: its non-musi­cal “score” by the ear­ly elec­tron­ic com­pos­er Oskar Sala. Many of the threat­en­ing bird calls on the sound­track were actu­al­ly played by Sala on a device called the Mix­tur-Trau­to­ni­um, a pre-syn­the­siz­er orches­tral elec­tron­ic instru­ment of which he was­n’t just the undis­put­ed mas­ter, but the only play­er in exis­tence.

After his accep­tance into the Berlin Con­ser­va­to­ry in 1929, Sala came into con­tact with the Trau­to­ni­um, which had recent­ly been invent­ed by one Dr. Friedrich Trautwein. Inspired to more deeply under­stand the prin­ci­ples behind the nascent tech­nol­o­gy of elec­tron­ic music, and to fur­ther it, he went on to study physics at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Berlin in the mid-nine­teen-thir­ties.

This posi­tioned him well to devel­op new mod­els of Trau­to­ni­um, a series that cul­mi­nat­ed in 1948 with the Mix­tur-Trau­to­ni­um, which, unlike Trautwein’s mono­phon­ic orig­i­nal, could sound mul­ti­ple voic­es at once. The instru­ment proved ver­sa­tile, and indeed com­mer­cial: any Ger­man who grew up in the nine­teen-fifties will remem­ber its sounds from tele­vi­sion adver­tise­ments.

The chance to work on The Birds, by far Sala’s most wide­ly heard sound­track work, “pre­sent­ed itself when a for­mer class­mate of Sala who worked at Uni­ver­sal Stu­dios in Hol­ly­wood heard that Hitch­cock want­ed syn­thet­i­cal­ly pro­duced bird sounds for his next movie,” says Google Arts & Cul­ture. “Hitch­cock, who delib­er­ate­ly want­ed to avoid cre­at­ing tra­di­tion­al movie music, even flew to Sala’s record­ing stu­dio in Berlin where he was impressed by the sounds made by the Trau­to­ni­um, which ulti­mate­ly pro­duced all the movie’s sound effects.” In col­lab­o­ra­tion with fel­low pio­neer­ing elec­tron­ic com­pos­er Remi Gassmann, Sala pro­duced a ver­i­ta­ble storm of not just avian shrieks and cack­les, but also the harsh swirl of the ele­ments and the creaks and groans of fail­ing man-made infra­struc­ture. Or at least that’s what movie­go­ers may imag­ine hear­ing in a sound­track that often verges on the oth­er­world­ly, even the abstract — and Hitch­cock knew that the imag­i­na­tion is the place from which real fear aris­es.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Alfred Hitch­cock Explains the Dif­fer­ence Between Sus­pense & Sur­prise: Give the Audi­ence Some Infor­ma­tion & Leave the Rest to Their Imag­i­na­tion

5 Hours of Free Alfred Hitch­cock Inter­views: Dis­cov­er His The­o­ries of Film Edit­ing, Cre­at­ing Sus­pense & More

Watch “Bells of Atlantis,” an Exper­i­men­tal Film with Ear­ly Elec­tron­ic Music Fea­tur­ing Anaïs Nin (1952)

Daphne Oram Cre­at­ed the BBC’s First-Ever Piece of Elec­tron­ic Music (1957)

The Scores That Elec­tron­ic Music Pio­neer Wendy Car­los Com­posed for Stan­ley Kubrick’s A Clock­work Orange and The Shin­ing

Hear the Evo­lu­tion of Elec­tron­ic Music: A Son­ic Jour­ney from 1929 to 2019

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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