DurÂing World War II, Tokyo susÂtained heavy damÂage, espeÂcialÂly with the bombÂings conÂductÂed by the U.S. milÂiÂtary in March 1945. Known as OperÂaÂtion MeetÂingÂhouse, US air raids destroyed 16 square miles in cenÂtral Tokyo, leavÂing 100,000 civilÂians dead and one milÂlion homeÂless. Tokyo didÂn’t recovÂer quickÂly. It took until the 1950s for reconÂstrucÂtion to realÂly gain momenÂtum. But gain momenÂtum it did. By 1964, Tokyo found itself largeÂly rebuilt, modÂernÂized, and ready to host the Olympics. That brings us to the 1968 film above, A Day in Tokyo, creÂatÂed by the Japan NationÂal Tourism OrgaÂniÂzaÂtion (JNTO) to proÂmote tourism in the rebuilt city.
The webÂsite JapanÂese NosÂtalÂgic Carsets the scene:
The year 1968 was a speÂcial time for Japan. It was emergÂing as a modÂern counÂtry. The Tokyo Olympics had just been held a few years priÂor. BulÂlet trains, high-speed expressÂways, and colÂor teleÂviÂsion broadÂcasts were spreadÂing throughÂout the land. The year before saw the ToyÂota 2000GT and MazÂda CosÂmo Sport, Japan’s conÂtemÂpoÂrary sports cars, debut. It must have been incredÂiÂbly excitÂing.
In the 23-minute film above, you can revisÂit this moment of transÂforÂmaÂtion and renewÂal, when Tokyo—as the film’s narÂraÂtor put it—combined the best of new and old. Here, in the “conÂstant metaÂbolÂic cycle of destrucÂtion and creÂation, Tokyo proÂgressÂes at a dizzyÂing pace.” And it’s a sight to behold. Enjoy.
ImagÂine a grand tour of EuroÂpean museÂums, and a fair few desÂtiÂnaÂtions come right to mind: the RijksmuÂseÂum, the PraÂdo, the Uffizi Gallery, the LouÂvre. These instiÂtuÂtions alone could take years to expeÂriÂence fulÂly, but it would be an incomÂplete jourÂney that didÂn’t venÂture farÂther east — much farÂther east, in the view of Great Art Explained creÂator James Payne. In his latÂest Great Art Cities video, he makes the case for IstanÂbul, adducÂing such both artisÂtiÂcalÂly and hisÂtorÂiÂcalÂly rich sites as the Ä°stÂanbÂul ArchaeÂoÂlogÂiÂcal MuseÂum, the BasilÂiÂca CisÂtern, the Zeyrek Çinili Hamam, IstanÂbul ModÂern, and of course — as preÂviÂousÂly feaÂtured here on Open CulÂture — the unigÂnorÂable Hagia Sophia.
Payne introÂduces IstanÂbul as havÂing been “the capÂiÂtal of three great empires, Roman, ByzanÂtine, and Ottoman.” In the conÂtiÂnent-stradÂdling metropÂoÂlis as it is today, “both ancient and modÂern art blend eleÂments from Europe, Asia, and the MidÂdle East, reflectÂing its geoÂgraphÂiÂcal and hisÂtorÂiÂcal posiÂtionÂing as a bridge between the East and the West.”
The works on disÂplay in the city conÂstiÂtute “a visuÂal embodÂiÂment of its comÂplex hisÂtoÂry,” from the HelÂlenisÂtic to the Roman to the IslamÂic to the styles and media of the twenÂtiÂeth and twenÂty-first cenÂturies, with all of which “modÂern-day Turkey is now creÂatÂing its own artisÂtic legaÂcy.”
That legaÂcy is also deeply rootÂed in the past. VisÂit the ArchaeÂoÂlogÂiÂcal MuseÂum and you can see the AlexanÂder SarÂcophÂaÂgus from the fourth cenÂtuÂry BC, whose astonÂishÂingÂly detailed carvÂings include “the only existÂing depicÂtion of AlexanÂder the Great creÂatÂed durÂing his lifeÂtime.” The underÂground BasilÂiÂca CisÂtern, built in the sixth cenÂtuÂry, counts as much as a large-scale work of ByzanÂtine art as it does a large-scale work of ByzanÂtine engiÂneerÂing. From there, it’s a short tram ride on the GalaÂta Bridge across the GoldÂen Horn to the brand-new, RenÂzo Piano-designed IstanÂbul ModÂern, which has paintÂings by Cihat Burak, FahrelÂnisÂsa Zeid, Bedri Baykam. You may not know those names now, but if you view their work in the unique culÂturÂal conÂtext of IstanÂbul — in which so many eras and civÂiÂlizaÂtions are manÂiÂfest — you’ll nevÂer forÂget them.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
EterÂniÂty occuÂpied artist James Grashow’s mind, too, throughÂout four years of toil on his CorÂruÂgatÂed FounÂtain, a masÂterÂpiece of planned obsoÂlesÂcence.
“All artists talk about process”, he rumiÂnates in an outÂtake from Olympia Stone’s docÂuÂmenÂtary, The CardÂboard BerniÂni, “but the process that they talk about is always from beginÂning to finÂish:
Nobody realÂly talks about full term process to the end, to the destrucÂtion, to the disÂsoÂluÂtion of a piece. EveryÂthing disÂsolves in an eterÂniÂty. I’d like to speak to that.
He picked the right mediÂum for such a medÂiÂtaÂtion — corÂruÂgatÂed cardÂboard, sourced from the DanÂbury Square Box ComÂpaÂny. (The founders chose its name in 1906 to alert the local hatÂting indusÂtry that they did not trafÂfic in round hat boxÂes.)
Grashow chalÂlenged himÂself to make someÂthing with cardÂboard and hot glue that would “outÂshine” BerniÂni before it was sacÂriÂficed to the eleÂments:
Water and cardÂboard canÂnot exist togethÂer.The idea of a paper founÂtain is imposÂsiÂble, an oxyÂmoron that speaks to the human dilemÂma. I wantÂed to make someÂthing heroÂic in its conÂcept and exeÂcuÂtion with full awareÂness of its poetÂic absurÂdiÂty. I wantÂed to try to make someÂthing eterÂnal out of cardÂboard… the FounÂtain was an irreÂsistible project for me.
The docÂuÂmenÂtary catchÂes a mix of emoÂtions as his meticÂuÂlousÂly conÂstructÂed Baroque figÂures — nymphs, horsÂes, dolÂphins, PoseiÂdon — are posiÂtioned for destrucÂtion on the grounds of the Aldrich ConÂtemÂpoÂrary Art MuseÂum.
A young boy at the exhibition’s openÂing is untrouÂbled by the sculpture’s impendÂing fate:
I think it’s cool, coz it’s made out of trees and it’s returnÂing to mush…or whatÂevÂer you want to call it.
His budÂdy finds it hard to share his enthuÂsiÂasm, gesÂturÂing helpÂlessÂly toward the monÂuÂmenÂtal work, his voice trailÂing off as he remarks, “I don’t see why you would want that to…”
An adult visÂiÂtor unashamedÂly reveals that she had been activeÂly rootÂing for rain.
When a storm does reduce the sculpÂture to an OzyÂmanÂdiÂan tableau a short while latÂer, Grashow susÂpects the project was ultiÂmateÂly a self porÂtrait, “full of blusÂter and bravaÂdo, holÂlow and melanÂcholy at its core, doomed from the start, and searchÂing for beauÂty in all of the sadÂness.”
Then he and a helper cart what’s left off to a waitÂing dumpÂster.
His daughÂter, RabÂbi ZoĂ« Klein, likens the CorÂruÂgatÂed Fountain’s imperÂmaÂnence to the sand manÂdalas Tibetan monks spend months creÂatÂing, then sweep away with litÂtle fanÂfare:
…the art is about just the gift of creÂation, that we have this abilÂiÂty to creÂate, that we celÂeÂbrate that, not that we can conÂquer time, but rather we can make the most of the time we have by makÂing it beauÂtiÂful and meanÂingÂful, livÂing up to our potenÂtial..
Grashow speaks tenÂderÂly of the ephemerÂal mateÂrÂiÂal he uses freÂquentÂly in his work:
It’s so grateÂful for the opporÂtuÂniÂty to become someÂthing, because it knows it’s going to be trash.
That, in any case, is the impresÂsion givÂen by the Kings and Things video above, which presents “Ten MagÂnifÂiÂcent HisÂtorÂiÂcal Libraries,” two of them locatÂed in PorÂtuÂgal. StandÂing on a hillÂtop overÂlookÂing CoimÂbra, the BibÂlioteÂca JoanÂiÂna “is sumpÂtuÂousÂly decÂoÂratÂed in Baroque fashÂion,” and “conÂtains intriÂcateÂly carved furÂniÂture and bookÂshelves made of exotÂic woods as well as ivory, and is embellÂished with cold and chiÂnoisÂerie motif.” As for the cenÂturies-old volÂumes on those shelves, they remain in excelÂlent conÂdiÂtion thanks to the BibÂlioteÂca JoanÂiÂna’s being one of only two libraries equipped with “a colony of bats to proÂtect the books from insects.”
The othÂer is in LisÂbon’s, Mafra Palace, which “conÂtains what is arguably one of the world’s most beauÂtiÂful libraries.” ComÂpletÂed in 1755, it’s decked out with bookÂshelves “decÂoÂratÂed in the RocoÂco style.” The stretch of the aesÂthetÂic specÂtrum between Baroque and RocoÂco domÂiÂnates this video, all of its libraries havÂing been built in the eighÂteenth and nineÂteenth cenÂturies. UnsurÂprisÂingÂly, most of them are in the Old World, from the Saint Gall Abbey in SwitzerÂland to the Library of TrinÂiÂty ColÂlege Dublin to the NationÂal Library of France (the RicheÂlieu site in the thirÂteenth arrondisseÂment, not the modÂern François-MitÂterÂrand Site decried in W. G. Sebald’s AusterÂlitz).
InstraÂgramÂmaÂble though they may have become in this day and age, these venÂerÂaÂble libraries all — unlike many tourist-spot bookÂstores, where you can’t hear yourÂself think for all the EngÂlish conÂverÂsaÂtions going on around you — encourÂage the spendÂing of not monÂey but time. They welÂcome the travÂelÂer lookÂing not simÂply to hit twenÂty capÂiÂtals in a dozen days, but to build a long-term relaÂtionÂship with a place. And not just the travÂelÂer in Europe: the video also includes a desÂtiÂnaÂtion in the UnitÂed States, the “catheÂdral of books” that is BalÂtiÂmore’s George Peabody Library. The true conÂnoisÂseur will, of course, folÂlow a visÂit to that august instiÂtuÂtion by takÂing the SilÂver Line north to hit up NorÂmals Books & Records.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
Or, they may be left wishÂing you’d givÂen them a vastÂly more hugÂgable machine-made plushie verÂsion, espeÂcialÂly if you can’t help suckÂing in your breath every time they start fumÂbling with that exquisÂiteÂly craftÂed ¥330,000 yen heirÂloom-to-be. (That’s $2341.81 in US dolÂlars.)
Of course, direcÂtor Hayao MiyazaÂki’s 1988 aniÂmatÂed feaÂture My NeighÂbor Totorohas legions of fans of all ages, and some will conÂsidÂer themÂselves quite lucky if they win the lotÂtery that grants them the abilÂiÂty to purÂchase such a treaÂsure.
They’re not only carved by skilled artiÂsans in InaÂmi, the city of woodÂcarvÂing, but the wood is also that of a camÂphor tree — the natÂurÂal habiÂtat of the mysÂteÂriÂous, magÂiÂcal Totoro! (It’s also conÂsidÂered holy by pracÂtiÂtionÂers of the ShinÂto reliÂgion.)
Still, if it’s unclear that the recipÂiÂent will truÂly appreÂciÂate such thoughtÂfulÂness, you’re probÂaÂbly betÂter off going with anothÂer offerÂing from StuÂdio Ghibli’s Totoro-themed colÂlabÂoÂraÂtion with NakÂaÂgawa Masashichi Shoten, a purÂveyÂor of traÂdiÂtionÂal JapanÂese crafts.
PerÂhaps a¥4180 bud vase fired in UreÂshiÂno City’s Edo-periÂod Yozan Kiln, feaÂturÂing Totoro or a clusÂter of susuwatari, the pom pom-like soot sprites infestÂing the KusakÂabe famÂiÂly’s new home, who also play a part in SpirÂitÂed Away.
Maybe a tiny Totoro bell amulet, moldÂed by craftsÂmen in Odawara, celÂeÂbratÂed for the qualÂiÂty of their metÂalÂwork since the earÂly 1500s, when they outÂfitÂted samuÂrai with weapons, armor and helÂmets?
As one of the leadÂing towns along the trunk road, YatuÂso flourÂished through … proÂducÂtion of wrapÂping paper for the nation-wide famous “ToyaÂma MedÂiÂcine”. At its goldÂen age, from the Edo Era to the beginÂning of the MeiÂji Era in the 19th cenÂtuÂry, many peoÂple were engaged in paperÂmakÂing by handÂwork in their homes. YatÂsuo JapanÂese paper was expectÂed to be unbreakÂable because it was used as packÂage for expenÂsive medÂiÂcine and at the same time it should look brilÂliant. It had to be thick and stout so that it could be imperÂviÂous to water and the label printÂed on the surÂface would not be smeared.
The list of Totoro-inspired traÂdiÂtionÂal crafts is impresÂsive. A repÂreÂsenÂtaÂtive samÂpling:
Chusen-dyed tenugui handÂkerÂchiefs and t‑shirts…
DishÂtowÂels made from five layÂers of Kayaori fabÂric that “was introÂduced to Japan durÂing the Nara periÂod and is said to allow wind to pass through but keep mosÂquiÂtoes out”…
Not quite a cenÂtuÂry ago, ShangÂhai was known as “the Paris of the East.” (Or it became one of the cities to enjoy that repÂuÂtaÂtion, at any rate.) Today, you can catch a high-speed train in ShangÂhai and, just an hour latÂer, arrive in a place that has made a much more litÂerÂal bid for that title: TianÂducheng, a disÂtrict modÂeled directÂly on the French capÂiÂtal, comÂplete with not entireÂly unconÂvincÂing faux-HaussÂmannian apartÂment buildÂings and bouleÂvards. StrugÂgling to attract resÂiÂdents in the years after its conÂstrucÂtion on farmÂland at the outÂskirts of Hangzhou in 2007, TianÂducheng soon came to be regardÂed as one of ChiÂna’s over-ambiÂtious ghost towns.
Bizarre as it may seem to those unfaÂmilÂiar with recent trends in ChiÂnese city-buildÂing, TianÂducheng actuÂalÂly belongs to a kind of imiÂtaÂtive traÂdiÂtion. “On the outÂskirts of BeiÂjing, a repliÂca of JackÂson Hole, Wyoming, is outÂfitÂted with cowÂboys and a Route 66,” writes NationÂal GeoÂgraphÂic’s GulÂnaz Khan.
“Red teleÂphone booths, pubs, and statÂues of WinÂston Churchill pepÂper the corÂriÂdors of Shanghai’s Thames Town. The city of Fuzhou is conÂstructÂing a repliÂca of StratÂford-upon-Avon in tribÂute to ShakeÂspeare.” To get a sense of how TianÂducheng fares today, have a look at “I Explored ChiÂna’s Failed $1 BilÂlion Copy of Paris,” the new video from Youtube travÂel chanÂnel Yes TheÂoÂry.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
The LasÂcaux Caves enjoyed a quiÂet exisÂtence for some 17,000 years.
Then came the sumÂmer of 1940, when four teens invesÂtiÂgatÂed what seemed to be a fox’s den on a hill near MonÂtiÂgnac, hopÂing it might lead to an underÂground pasÂsageÂway of local legÂend.
Once inside, they disÂcovÂered the paintÂings that have intrigued us ever since, expandÂing our underÂstandÂing of preÂhisÂtoric art and human oriÂgins, and causÂing us to specÂuÂlate on things we’ll nevÂer have an answer to.
The boys’ teacher reached out to sevÂerÂal preÂhisÂtoÂriÂans, who authenÂtiÂcatÂed the figÂures, arranged for them to be phoÂtographed and sketched, and colÂlectÂed a numÂber of bone and flint artiÂfacts from the caves’ floors.
By 1948, excaÂvaÂtions and artiÂfiÂcial lights renÂdered the caves accesÂsiÂble to visÂiÂtors, who arrived in droves — as many as 1,800 in a sinÂgle day.
…the heat, humidÂiÂty and carÂbon dioxÂide of all those peoÂple crammed into the dark and airÂless cave was causÂing an imbalÂance in the cave’s natÂurÂal ecosysÂtem, leadÂing to the overÂgrowth of molds and funÂgusÂes that threatÂened to oblitÂerÂate the preÂhisÂtoric paintÂings.
The lights that had helped visÂiÂtors get an eyeÂful of the paintÂings caused fadÂing and disÂcolÂoration that threatÂened their very exisÂtence.
DeclarÂing this major attracÂtion off limÂits was the right move, and those who make the jourÂney to the area won’t leave entireÂly disÂapÂpointÂed. LasÂcaux IV, a painstakÂing repliÂca that opened to the pubÂlic in 2016, offers even more verisimilÂiÂtude than the preÂviÂous modÂel, 1983’s LasÂcaux II.
A handÂful of researchers and mainÂteÂnance workÂers are still perÂmitÂted inside the actuÂal caves, now a UNESCO World HerÂitage site, but human presÂence is limÂitÂed to an annuÂal total of 800 hours, and everyÂone must be propÂerÂly outÂfitÂted with sterÂile white overÂalls, plasÂtic head covÂerÂings, latex gloves, douÂble shoe covÂers, and LED foreÂhead lamps with which to view the paintÂings.
An interÂacÂtive tour offers close-up views of the famous paintÂings, with titles to oriÂent the viewÂer as to the parÂticÂuÂlars of what and where — for examÂple “red cow folÂlowed by her calf” in the Hall of the Bulls.
Click the butÂton in the lowÂer left for a more in-depth expert descripÂtion of the eleÂment being depictÂed:
The flat red colÂor used for the silÂhouÂette is of a uniÂforÂmiÂty that is selÂdom attained, which implies a repeatÂed gesÂture startÂing from the same point, with comÂpleÂmenÂtary angles of proÂjecÂtion of pigÂments. The outÂlines have been creÂatÂed with a stenÂcil, and only the hindquarÂters, horns and the line of the back have been laid down with a brush…The fact that the artist used the same pigÂment for both figÂures withÂout any picÂtoÂrÂiÂal tranÂsiÂtion between them indiÂcates that the fusion of the two silÂhouÂettes was intenÂtionÂal, indicaÂtive of the conÂnecÂtion between the calf and its mothÂer. This duo was born of the same gesÂture, and the image of the offÂspring is mereÂly the graphÂic extenÂsion of that of its mothÂer.
All of us, across the world, know that Italy is shaped like a boot. But almost none of us know that, in the regions of ApuÂlia and CalÂabria at the counÂtry’s “heel” and “toe,” live small comÂmuÂniÂties who, among themÂselves, still speak not ItalÂian but Greek. The word “still” applies because these peoÂples, known as Griko (or GreÂcaniÂci), are thought to have descendÂed from the much largÂer medieval or even ancient Greek comÂmuÂniÂties that once existÂed there. Of course, it wouldÂn’t have been at all unusuÂal back then for inhabÂiÂtants of one part of what we now call Italy to speak a quite difÂferÂent lanÂguage from the inhabÂiÂtants of anothÂer.
John KazaÂkÂlis at IstoÂria writes that “the ItalÂian lanÂguage did not become the staÂple lanÂguage until well into the end of the 19th CenÂtuÂry durÂing the process of ItalÂian uniÂfiÂcaÂtion, or the RisorgÂiÂmenÂto,” which turned the TusÂcan dialect into the nationÂal lanÂguage. Yet “there exists today a tiny enclave of Greek-speakÂing peoÂple in the Aspromonte MounÂtain region of RegÂgio CalÂabria that seem to have surÂvived milÂlenÂnia.”
Are they “descenÂdants of the Ancient Greeks who colÂoÂnized SouthÂern Italy? Are they remÂnants of the ByzanÂtine presÂence in SouthÂern Italy? Did their ancesÂtors come in the 15th-16th CenÂturies from the Greek comÂmuÂniÂties in the Aegean fleeÂing Ottoman invaÂsion?” EveryÂone who conÂsidÂers the oriÂgins of the Griko/Grecanici peoÂple (or their Griko/GriÂco/Greko lanÂguages) seems to come to a slightÂly difÂferÂent conÂcluÂsion.
“I susÂpect they speak a dialect more closeÂly relatÂed to the Koine Greek spoÂken at the time of the 11th cenÂtuÂry ByzanÂtine Empire, the last and final time SouthÂern Italy was still part of the Greek-speakÂing world,” writes GreÂcophÂoÂne YoutuÂber Tom_Traveler, who visÂits the Griko-speakÂing vilÂlages of GalÂliÂcianò and Bova in the video above. “Or perÂhaps it was influÂenced by Greek refugees fleeÂing ConÂstanÂtinoÂple upon its fall to the Turks in 1453.” HowÂevÂer it develÂoped, it’s long been a lanÂguage on the decline: “the clearÂest estiÂmate of remainÂing Greko speakÂers seems to be between 200–300,” KazaÂkÂlis wrote in 2017, “and numÂbers conÂtinÂue to decrease.” In the interÂest of preÂservÂing the lanÂguage and the hisÂtoÂry reflectÂed withÂin it, now would be a good time for a few of those speakÂers to start up Youtube chanÂnels of their own.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
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