Leonardo da Vinci Draws Designs of Future War Machines: Tanks, Machine Guns & More

precursor to machine gun

We think of Leonar­do da Vin­ci as one of the great human­ists, a thinker and cre­ator whose achieve­ments spanned the realms of art, archi­tec­ture, nat­ur­al sci­ence, engi­neer­ing, and let­ters. We less often think of him as an inno­va­tor of the tools of as destruc­tive a prac­tice as war, but a true poly­math — and the life of Leonar­do more or less defines that con­cept — knows no bound­aries. The web­site Leonar­do da Vin­ci Inven­tions lists among the machines he came up with an armored car (“pre­cur­sor to the mod­ern tank”), an 86-foot cross­bow, and a triple bar­rel can­non (at a time when even gun­pow­der itself had­n’t yet attained world­wide use).

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Many of Leonar­do’s inven­tions, no mat­ter how thor­ough­ly he dia­grammed their designs and mechan­ics in his note­books, nev­er got out of the realm of the the­o­ret­i­cal in his life­time — and some remain machines of the imag­i­na­tion. But as Nick Squires report­ed in the Tele­graph a few years ago, a late 15th-cen­tu­ry can­non dug up in Croa­t­ia “bears a strik­ing resem­blance to sketch­es drawn by the Renais­sance inven­tor, notably in his Codex Atlanti­cus — the largest col­lec­tion of his draw­ings and writ­ing. Mount­ed on a wood­en car­riage and wheels, it would have allowed a much more rapid rate of fire than tra­di­tion­al sin­gle-bar­reled guns — in a pre­cur­sor to mod­ern day machine guns.”

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA

Italian-renaissance-art.com offers more detail on all these Leonar­do-designed weapons, and the his­tor­i­cal con­text which drove him to work on them:

He was a man of his time and the need for mil­i­tary engi­neers pro­vid­ed him with employ­ment, trav­el oppor­tu­ni­ties, and the chance to con­tin­ue his sci­en­tif­ic work unhin­dered. Renais­sance Italy was a col­lec­tion of inde­pen­dent city states who became engaged in inces­sant war­fare with each oth­er.

“This pro­vid­ed a mar­ket for the tech­ni­cal­ly advanced weapons need­ed to gain mil­i­tary advan­tage over the ene­my” — and an oppor­tu­ni­ty for Leonar­do to work out his ideas for “new weapon­ry, bridg­ing, bom­bard­ing machines, trench drain­ing,” and more. Leonar­do’s work dur­ing this peri­od includ­ed 15th-cen­tu­ry blue­prints for “an armored vehi­cle made from wood and oper­at­ed by eight men” turn­ing cranks, an antiq­ui­ty-inspired “scythed char­i­ot,” breech-load­ing and water-cooled guns not entire­ly dif­fer­ent in con­cept from the steam can­nons used in the World War II, and “a repeat­ing ‘machine gun’ oper­at­ed by a man-pow­ered tread­mill.”

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You can see a real-life exam­ple of Leonar­do’s leaf-spring cat­a­pult built by a Soci­ety for Cre­ative Anachro­nism mem­ber here. But if you try to fol­low the instruc­tions and assem­ble his oth­er inge­nious mil­i­tary devices, pre­pare for dis­ap­point­ment. The Tele­graph’s Tom Leonard wrote up an ear­ly-2000s BBC doc­u­men­tary that claimed this Renais­sance Man’s Renais­sance Man “insert­ed a series of delib­er­ate flaws into his inven­tions to make sure that they could nev­er be used,” for instance, “when the tank, a tor­toise-like con­trap­tion, was test­ed by the Army, it imme­di­ate­ly became clear that its gears had been set against each oth­er.”

Leonar­do pos­si­bly crip­pled his own designs in order to serve the func­tion of absent “patent laws to pro­tect him from hav­ing his designs copied,” and pos­si­bly because he “was a paci­fist who was aware that his war­lord mas­ters might try to find mil­i­tary uses for his inven­tions.” Either way, at least he died a few hun­dred years too ear­ly to wit­ness the First World War, in which tanks, machine guns, and all the rest of it turned into sure­ly more hor­ri­fy­ing a spec­ta­cle than all the bat­tles of Renais­sance Italy put togeth­er.

LDV-catapult_1

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load the Sub­lime Anato­my Draw­ings of Leonar­do da Vin­ci: Avail­able Online, or in a Great iPad App

Orig­i­nal Por­trait of the Mona Lisa Found Beneath the Paint Lay­ers of da Vinci’s Mas­ter­piece

Leonar­do da Vinci’s Hand­writ­ten Resume (1482)

Leonar­do Da Vinci’s To Do List (cir­ca 1490) Is Much Cool­er Than Yours

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Scientists Create a New Rembrandt Painting, Using a 3D Printer & Data Analysis of Rembrandt’s Body of Work

All of us who saw Juras­sic Park as kids, no mat­ter how much skep­ti­cism we’d pre­co­cious­ly devel­oped, sure­ly spent at least a moment won­der­ing if sci­ence could actu­al­ly bring dinosaurs back to life by pulling the DNA out of their blood trapped in amber-pre­served mos­qui­toes. It turns out that it can’t — at least not yet! — but even so, we had to admit that Steven Spiel­berg and his CGI-savvy col­lab­o­ra­tors (not to men­tion their huge bud­get) achieved, on screen, the next best thing. Even so, peo­ple have long dis­agreed about whether to call the visu­al res­ur­rec­tion of dinosaurs in the ser­vice of a block­buster adven­ture movie a work of art.

But what if we used the even more pow­er­ful data analy­sis and com­put­er graph­ics tech­nol­o­gy now at our dis­pos­al specif­i­cal­ly for the pur­pose of gen­er­at­ing a mas­ter­piece, or at least a piece by a mas­ter — by Rem­brandt, say? A project called The Next Rem­brandt has aimed to do just that with its attempt “to dis­till the artis­tic DNA of Rem­brandt” using every­thing from build­ing and ana­lyz­ing “an exten­sive analy­sis of his paint­ings [ … ] pix­el by pix­el,” to per­form­ing a demo­graph­ic study deter­min­ing his con­clu­sive por­trait sub­ject (“a Cau­casian male with facial hair, between the ages of thir­ty and forty, wear­ing black clothes with a white col­lar and a hat, fac­ing to the right”), to cre­at­ing a height map to mim­ic his phys­i­cal brush strokes.

Next Rembrandt

“You could say that we use tech­nol­o­gy and data like Rem­brandt used his paints and his brush­es to cre­ate some­thing new.” Those bold words come from Ron Augus­tus, Microsoft­’s direc­tor of small- and medi­um-sized busi­ness mar­kets, in the pro­mo­tion­al video at the top of the post. His employ­er acts as one of two part­ners involved in The Next Rem­brandt, the oth­er being the Dutch bank ING — hence, pre­sum­ably, the choice of painter to res­ur­rect. Their com­bined resources have pro­duced a whol­ly the­o­ret­i­cal, but in a phys­i­cal sense very real, new “Rem­brandt” por­trait, metic­u­lous­ly 3D-print­ed at 148 megapix­els in thir­teen lay­ers of paint-based UV ink.

Despite its impres­sive plau­si­bil­i­ty, nobody expects the fruit of the Next Rem­brandt pro­jec­t’s con­sid­er­able labors, unveiled yes­ter­day in Ams­ter­dam, to hang in the Rijksmu­se­um next to The Night Watch. But it can, prop­er­ly con­sid­ered, teach us all a great deal about what, in the words of ING exec­u­tive cre­ative direc­tor Bas Korsten, “made Rem­brandt Rem­brandt.” And like any cut­ting-edge stunt, it also gives us a glimpse into what tech­nol­o­gy will soon­er or lat­er make pos­si­ble for us all. How long could we pos­si­bly have to wait before we can 3D-print, on can­vas with oil paint, por­traits of our­selves as Rem­brandt almost cer­tain­ly would have paint­ed us — or our very own Night Watch, indis­tin­guish­able from the orig­i­nal? Tru­ly, we stand on the cusp of a gold­en age of forgery.

via Metafil­ter

Relat­ed Con­tent:

300+ Etch­ings by Rem­brandt Now Free Online, Thanks to the Mor­gan Library & Muse­um

A Final Wish: Ter­mi­nal­ly Ill Patients Vis­it Rembrandt’s Paint­ings in the Rijksmu­se­um One Last Time

16th-Cen­tu­ry Ams­ter­dam Stun­ning­ly Visu­al­ized with 3D Ani­ma­tion

Flash­mob Recre­ates Rembrandt’s “The Night Watch” in a Dutch Shop­ping Mall

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

A Hulking 1959 Chevy Bel Air Gets Obliterated by a Mid-Size 2009 Chevy Malibu in a Crash Test

The auto indus­try con­tin­ues to take steps for­ward, some­times big, some­times small. They’re tin­ker­ing with elec­tric and dri­ver­less cars, and they’re find­ing ways to improve the safe­ty of every­day vehi­cles already on the road. How much incre­men­tal progress have we made? Just watch the video pro­duced by the Insur­ance Insti­tute for High­way Safe­ty. A 2009 Chevy Mal­ibu crash­es into a colos­sal 1959 Chevy Bel Air at 40 miles per hour. And despite its “Safe­ty-Gird­er” cru­ci­form frame (a safe­ty inno­va­tion Chevy devel­oped dur­ing the 1950s) the big­ger Bel Air did­n’t fare well at all. The same applies to the dum­my inside.

Here’s how the Insti­tute described what hap­pened to the Bel Air to The New York Times:

This car had no seat belts or air bags. Dum­my move­ment wasn’t well con­trolled, and there was far too much upward and rear­ward move­ment of the steer­ing wheel. The dummy’s head struck the steer­ing wheel rim and hub and then the roof and unpadded met­al instru­ment pan­el to the left of the steer­ing wheel.

Dur­ing rebound, the dummy’s head remained in con­tact with the roof and slid rear­ward and some­what inward. The wind­shield was com­plete­ly dis­lodged from the car and the dri­ver door opened dur­ing the crash, both pre­sent­ing a risk of ejec­tion. In addi­tion, the front bench seat was torn away from the floor on the dri­ver side.

The Bel Air got a “Poor” rat­ing in every safe­ty cat­e­go­ry; the Mal­ibu a “Good.”

Although a lot of Amer­i­ca seems stuck in reverse, car design is one area where we’re mov­ing for­ward, hope­ful­ly with even bet­ter days to come.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

178,000 Images Doc­u­ment­ing the His­to­ry of the Car Now Avail­able on a New Stan­ford Web Site

Jack Nichol­son Puts His Star Pow­er Behind “Green” Cars, 1978

Young Robert De Niro Appears in 1969 AMC Car Com­mer­cial

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How to Send an E‑mail: A 1984 British Television Broadcast Explains This “Simple” Process

Ear­li­er this month, the world got news of the death of a man whose name many of us had nev­er heard but whose act of inno­va­tion shaped what we do every day. “When his­to­ri­ans of the future study the ways infor­ma­tion tech­nol­o­gy affect­ed people’s lives in the late 20th cen­tu­ry,” said his Econ­o­mist obit­u­ary, “they will sure­ly recog­nise e‑mail as one of the most pro­found. Today, about 2.5m e‑mails are sent every sec­ond. The first e‑mail of all, though” — to be pre­cise, “the first mes­sage between ter­mi­nals attached to sep­a­rate CPUs, albeit that these two com­put­ers stood side-by-side in the same room” — “was sent 45 years ago by Ray Tom­lin­son.”

Fif­teen years after that qui­et­ly his­to­ry-mak­ing trans­mis­sion, e‑mail had evolved to the point that it had become a sub­ject in the news. This 1984 seg­ment of the Thames Tele­vi­sion com­put­er show Data­base shows how one ear­ly-adopt­ing cou­ple, Pat and Julian Green of north Lon­don, com­mu­ni­cate with the world by con­nect­ing their com­put­er to, of all things, the tele­phone line. “It’s sim­ple, real­ly,” says Julian, unplug­ging a British Tele­com cable from one sock­et and plug­ging it into a modem, plug­ging a dif­fer­ent wire from the modem into the first sock­et, switch­ing on the modem, and then hand-dial­ing the num­ber of a “main com­put­er” — with his rotary phone. “Extreme­ly sim­ple,” he reit­er­ates.

What can they do on Micronet, their ser­vice provider, once con­nect­ed? They might read the news, have a look at “reviews of the soft­ware that’s cur­rent­ly avail­able” and even down­load some of it, or use the fea­ture that Pat (in addi­tion to her use of the com­put­er for “keep­ing house­hold records, such as what I have in the freez­er, and people’s tele­phone num­bers and address­es,” as well as “a word proces­sor for my let­ters, which always come out per­fect now”) describes as most excit­ing of all: “the mail­box where I write to oth­er peo­ple.” We see how she can use this new elec­tron­ic mail to ask her doc­tor to refill a pre­scrip­tion, and even to send a mes­sage to the Data­base stu­dio.

All this must have intrigued the view­ers of the day, who, if they had their own com­put­ers at the ready, could even “down­load” soft­ware straight from the broad­cast by record­ing the tone that plays over the show’s end cred­its. (As long as their com­put­ers were BBC Micros, that is, at least in this par­tic­u­lar episode.) The past 32 years have seen enthu­si­asm for new tech­nol­o­gy spread all across the world, turn­ing us all, in some sense, into Pat and Julian Greens. Today we mar­vel at all what we can do with our smart­phones, devices that would’ve seemed mag­i­cal in 1984, but in three decades from now, even our cur­rent tech­no­log­i­cal lives will sure­ly look quaint­er than any­thing in the Data­base archives.

via Atlas Obscu­ra

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Inter­net Imag­ined in 1969

From the Annals of Opti­mism: The News­pa­per Indus­try in 1981 Imag­ines its Dig­i­tal Future

Where Is Tech­nol­o­gy Tak­ing Us?

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

An Inside Look at How the Fantastic “Wintergatan Marble Machine” Makes Music with 2000 Marbles & 3000 Handmade Parts

Swedish musi­cian Mar­tin Molin’s Mar­ble Machine, above, looks like the kind of top heavy, enchant­ed con­trap­tion one might find in a Miyaza­ki movie, gal­lop­ing through the coun­try­side on its skin­ny legs.

Those slen­der stems are but one of the design flaws that both­er its cre­ator, who notes that he hadn’t real­ly tak­en into account the destruc­tive pow­er of 2000 flow­ing mar­bles (or more accu­rate­ly, 11mm steel ball bear­ings).

It’s nat­ur­al for some­one so close to the project to fix­ate on its imper­fec­tions, but I think it’s safe to say that the rest of us will be bedaz­zled by all the giant musi­cal Rube Gold­berg device gets right. Hannes Knutsson’s “mak­ing of” videos below detail some of Molin’s labors, from recre­at­ing the sound of a snare drum with coast­ers, a con­tact mic and a box of bas­mati rice, to cut­ting wood­en gears from a cus­tomiz­able tem­plate that any­one can down­load off the Inter­net.

If it looks like a time con­sum­ing endeav­or, it was. Molin wound up devot­ing 14 months to what he had con­ceived of as a short term project, even­tu­al­ly design­ing and fab­ri­cat­ing 3,000 inter­nal parts.

The fin­ished prod­uct is a feat of dig­i­tal, musi­cal, and phys­i­cal skill. As Molin told Wired,

I grew up mak­ing music on Midi, and every­one makes music on a grid nowa­days, on com­put­ers. Even before dig­i­tal they made fan­tas­tic, pro­gram­ma­ble music instru­ments. In bell tow­ers and church tow­ers that play a melody they always have a pro­gram­ming wheel exact­ly like the one that is on the mar­ble machine.

The “mak­ing of” videos high­light the dif­fer­ence between the record­ed audio sig­nal and the sound in the room where the machine is being oper­at­ed. There’s some­thing immense­ly sat­is­fy­ing about the insect-like click of all those mar­bles work­ing in con­cert as they acti­vate the var­i­ous instru­ments and notes.

The machine also appears to give its inven­tor a rather brisk car­dio work­out.

You can read more about the con­struc­tion of the Mar­ble Machine on Molin’s Win­ter­gatan web­site. Its tune is avail­able for down­load here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

See the First “Drum Machine,” the Rhyth­mi­con from 1931, and the Mod­ern Drum Machines That Fol­lowed Decades Lat­er

New Order’s “Blue Mon­day” Played with Obso­lete 1930s Instru­ments

Two Gui­tar Effects That Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Rock: The Inven­tion of the Wah-Wah & Fuzz Ped­als

Watch 30 Films from the 1970s by Computer Animation Pioneer Lillian F. Schwartz

In the 1970s and 80s, a cer­tain vivid, com­plex, and slight­ly fright­en­ing com­put­er-graph­ics aes­thet­ic rose in the zeit­geist. Though it has long passed into the realm of the retro, it remains imprint­ed on our minds, and we owe much of its look and feel to an artist named Lil­lian F. Schwartz. Trained in the art of Japan­ese cal­lig­ra­phy as a way of recov­er­ing from polio and lat­er brought into the high tech­no­log­i­cal fer­ment of late-1960s Bell Labs, Schwartz found her­self well-placed to define what human­i­ty would think of when they thought of the imagery gen­er­at­ed by these promis­ing new machines called com­put­ers.

Schwartz start­ed cre­at­ing a series of abstract films in the ear­ly 1970s, using not just com­put­ers but com­put­ers in com­bi­na­tion with lasers, pho­tographs, oil paints, and the full range of tra­di­tion­al film pho­tog­ra­phy and edit­ing gear.

You can watch 30 of her films on her web site, and at the top of this post you’ll find 1972’s Muta­tions. Schwartz’s site quotes the New York Times’ A.H. Weil­er as describ­ing its “chang­ing dots, ecto­plas­mic shapes and elec­tron­ic music” as “an eye-catch­ing view of the poten­tials of the new tech­niques.”


Video-art fans will know the Paik video-syn­the­siz­er, or at least they’ll know Paik: Nam June Paik, that is, the Kore­an video artist who did plen­ty of artis­tic-tech­no­log­i­cal pio­neer­ing of his own. Both he and Schwartz gave a great deal of thought to — and put a great deal of prac­tice into — push­ing the bound­aries of tech­nolo­gies whose con­ven­tion­al uses the rest of us had­n’t quite learned yet. You can see Schwartz doing exact­ly that in The Artist and the Com­put­er, the 1976 short doc­u­men­tary on her work, orig­i­nal­ly pro­duced for AT&T, just above.

You can read more about Schwartz, back at Bell Labs and today, in the arti­cle “Art at the Edge of Tomor­row” by Jer Thorp. “I find it’s still an awe­some expe­ri­ence to use a machine that — one can’t even fath­om the speed,” she says in The Artist and the Com­put­er as we watch her pass­ing rows and rows of hulk­ing main­frames with their racks of obscure periph­er­als and spin­ning reels of tape. “When you speak of nanosec­onds, you can’t even grasp how fast these machines can work.” They work much faster now, of course, and we’ve grown used to it, even jad­ed about it — but Schwartz’s films cap­ture our imag­i­na­tions, in their inven­tive and eerie way, more than ever.

You can watch 30 of Schwartz’s pio­neer­ing films here.

via Mono­skop

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Debussy’s Clair de lune: The Clas­si­cal Music Visu­al­iza­tion with 21 Mil­lion Views

The Ground­break­ing Sil­hou­ette Ani­ma­tions of Lotte Reiniger: Cin­derel­la, Hansel and Gre­tel, and More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Charlie Chaplin Gets Strapped into a Dystopian “Rube Goldberg Machine,” a Frightful Commentary on Modern Capitalism

I get into a lot of con­ver­sa­tions these days about how we used to con­sid­er tech­no­log­i­cal progress good by def­i­n­i­tion, but now — despite or maybe because of the far­ther-pro­gressed-than-ever state of our tech­nol­o­gy — we feel a bit wary about it all. We line up for the lat­est smart­phone, but as we do we reflect upon how it increas­ing­ly looks we’ll nev­er line up for the jet­packs, fly­ing cars, and moon colonies we dreamed of in child­hood. We enjoy our phones, but we resent them as well, remem­ber­ing those long-ago assur­ances that tech­nol­o­gy would increase our leisure, not fill it with anx­i­ety about insuf­fi­cient­ly rapid respons­es, nag­ging left­over work, and missed-out-on infor­ma­tion of every kind. When did the trust between our tech and our­selves break down?

Not so recent­ly, it turns out — or rather, not just recent­ly. The human-tech­nol­o­gy rela­tion­ship goes through its good times and its bad patch­es, and at any giv­en time some of us like the direc­tion its progress looks to be mov­ing in more than oth­ers do. You may have heard of one par­tic­u­lar­ly well-known tech­no­log­i­cal crit­ic of the ear­ly twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, a car­toon­ist by the name of Rube Gold­berg. More like­ly, you’ve heard of the pre­pos­ter­ous­ly elab­o­rate machines he drew in his car­toons.

One rep­re­sen­ta­tive exam­ple, an “auto­mat­ic sui­cide device for unlucky stock spec­u­la­tors,” involves the ring of a phone (“prob­a­bly a mes­sage from your bro­ker say­ing you are wiped out”) which wakes up a doz­ing office man­ag­er whose stretch­ing hits a lever which launch­es a toy glid­er which hits a dwarf whose jump­ing up and down in pain works a jack which lifts up a pig to the lev­el of a pota­to, and when he eats the pota­to… well, in any case, the process ends up, some time lat­er, pulling the trig­ger of a gun mount­ed right over the tick­er­tape machine. “If the tele­phone call is not from your bro­ker,” Gold­berg notes, you’ll nev­er find out the mis­take because you’ll be dead any­way.

“The sur­re­al­ism of Goldberg’s car­toon inven­tions,” writes Bren­dan O’Con­nor at The Verge, while meant to enter­tain, “also reveals a dark skep­ti­cism of the era in which they were made. The machines were sym­bols, Gold­berg wrote, of ‘man’s capac­i­ty for exert­ing max­i­mum effort to accom­plish min­i­mal results.’ ” They had a strong appeal in that “era of increas­ing automa­tion, and increas­ing con­cern about automa­tion, exem­pli­fied in Char­lie Chaplin’s 1936 mas­ter­piece Mod­ern Times. One of the film’s dystopi­an curiosi­ties, the Bil­lows Feed­ing Machine, invent­ed by Mr. J. Wid­de­combe Bil­lows, has a dis­tinct­ly Rube Gold­ber­gian qual­i­ty to it — this is like­ly no coin­ci­dence, as Gold­berg and Chap­lin were friends.”

In the clip at the top, we see the Bil­lows Feed­ing Machine in action, not quite ful­fill­ing its promise to “elim­i­nate the lunch hour, increase your pro­duc­tion, and decrease your over­head.” The dis­ap­point­ed high­er-ups ren­der their ver­dict: “It’s no good — it isn’t prac­ti­cal.” A mod­ern-day J. Wid­de­combe Bil­lows would know bet­ter how to respond to them: it’s still in beta.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Falling Water: A Rube Gold­berg Machine That Makes a Fine Cock­tail

Stu­dents Tells the Passover Sto­ry with a Rube Gold­berg Machine

Char­lie Chap­lin Does Cocaine and Saves the Day in Mod­ern Times (1936)

Three Great Films Star­ring Char­lie Chap­lin, the True Icon of Silent Com­e­dy

Dis­cov­er the Cin­e­mat­ic & Comedic Genius of Char­lie Chap­lin with 60+ Free Movies Online

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Walk Inside a Surrealist Salvador Dalí Painting with This 360º Virtual Reality Video


Click on the arrows to get the full 360 degree expe­ri­ence.

I felt as impressed as every­one else did when I saw my first 360-degree video, the tech­nol­o­gy that allows view­ers to “look” in any direc­tion they wish. But most of the 360-degree videos that became pop­u­lar ear­ly sim­ply demon­strat­ed the con­cept, and as much aston­ish­ment as the expe­ri­ence of the con­cept alone can gen­er­ate, even more excite­ment came from think­ing about the tech­nol­o­gy’s poten­tial. It has­n’t tak­en long for 360-degree videos to look beyond vir­tu­al real­i­ty — indeed, to look all the way to vir­tu­al sur­re­al­i­ty, as envi­sioned by per­haps the best-known sur­re­al­ist of them all, Sal­vador Dalí.

“Dreams of Dalí,” the 36o-degree video above, drops you into the world of Dalí’s 1935 can­vas Archae­o­log­i­cal Rem­i­nis­cence of Millet’s ‘Angelus,’  an homage to an ear­li­er work (Jean-François Millet’s paint­ing, “The Angelus”) which enjoyed enor­mous pop­u­lar­i­ty dur­ing Dalí’s youth. This ear­li­er work, notes the Dalí’ Muse­um, was “repro­duced on every­thing from prints and post­cards to every­day objects like teacups and inkwells. The late 19th cen­tu­ry paint­ing depicts a peas­ant cou­ple stand­ing in a field with their heads bowed in prayer. For many it was a sen­ti­men­tal work, but for Dalí’ it was trou­bling, with lay­ers of hid­den mean­ing, which he explored through day­dreams and fan­tasies.”

As the artist him­self put it, “I sur­ren­dered myself to a brief fan­ta­sy dur­ing which I imag­ined sculp­tures of the two fig­ures in Millet’s ‘Angelus’ carved out of the high­est rocks.” His for­mi­da­ble imag­i­na­tion con­vert­ed that mid-19th-cen­tu­ry image of rur­al hard­ship and piety into the moon­lit desert land­scape through which “Dreams of Dalí” flies you. Cre­at­ed for “Dis­ney and Dalí: Archi­tects of the Imag­i­na­tion,” an exhib­it at St. Peters­burg, Flori­da’s Dalí Muse­um on the friend­ship and col­lab­o­ra­tion between those two vision­ary 20th-cen­tu­ry world-cre­ators (see Des­ti­no, the short film Dalí and Dis­ney col­lab­o­rat­ed on), the video not only gives the paint­ing a third spa­tial dimen­sion, but a detailed son­ic one fea­tur­ing the god­like voice of Dalí him­self.

If you make use of the arrows that appear in the video’s upper-left cor­ner or click and drag (or, on smart­phones, press and drag with your fin­ger) with­in the frame, you can turn the “cam­era” in any direc­tion. Pay close enough atten­tion, and you’ll spot more than a few touch­es not includ­ed in the orig­i­nal paint­ing that will nonethe­less delight fans of the Dalí sen­si­bil­i­ty, not all of which you can catch on your first flight through. But as much as the expe­ri­ence may feel like a dream — and it counts as one of the few works to real­ly mer­it the term “dream­like” — it won’t van­ish as soon as you emerge from it; you can have at it again and again, see­ing some­thing new and sur­pris­ing each time.

via The Cre­ator’s Project

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sal­vador Dalí & Walt Disney’s Des­ti­no: See the Col­lab­o­ra­tive Film, Orig­i­nal Sto­ry­boards & Ink Draw­ings

Sal­vador Dalí Goes to Hol­ly­wood & Cre­ates Wild Dream Sequences for Hitch­cock & Vin­cente Min­nel­li

Two Vin­tage Films by Sal­vador Dalí and Luis Buñuel: Un Chien Andalou and L’Age d’Or

The Seashell and the Cler­gy­man: The World’s First Sur­re­al­ist Film

Alfred Hitch­cock Recalls Work­ing with Sal­vador Dali on Spell­bound

A Soft Self-Por­trait of Sal­vador Dali, Nar­rat­ed by the Great Orson Welles

A Tour Inside Sal­vador Dalí’s Labyrinthine Span­ish Home

Sal­vador Dalí Illus­trates Don Quixote: Two Spaniards with Unique World Views

Sal­vador Dalí’s Haunt­ing 1975 Illus­tra­tions for Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juli­et

Sal­vador Dalí Illus­trates Shakespeare’s Mac­beth

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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