How to Make a Savile Row Suit: A Short Documentary from the Museum of Modern Art

Sav­ile Row is unfash­ion­able. This, of course, is its great strength: not for noth­ing does that Lon­don street stand as the last word in time­less tai­lor­ing. Since at least the ear­ly 19th cen­tu­ry, men have gone to Sav­ile Row not just to com­mis­sion hand­made suits from their favorite shops, but to par­tic­i­pate in as many fit­tings as nec­es­sary through­out the process of bring­ing those suits ever clos­er to per­fec­tion. The result, over decades and indeed gen­er­a­tions of reg­u­lar patron­age, is the cul­ti­va­tion of not fash­ion but style. Even so, Sav­ile Row fig­ures in the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art’s online course Fash­ion as Design, whose videos on the mak­ing of a bespoke three-piece suit you can see here.

It all hap­pens at Ander­son & Shep­pard, a fix­ture on the Row since 1906. In the first video, “behind a drawn cur­tain, a mas­ter cut­ter” — whose job includes not just cut­ting the cloth but inter­act­ing with the client — “takes an ini­tial series of 27 mea­sure­ments: 20 for the jack­et, 7 for the trousers. From these mea­sure­ments, the cut­ter fash­ions a pat­tern in heavy brown paper.”

We then see the cloth cut to this pat­tern, “and the many pieces of fab­ric are rolled for each gar­ment into tiny pack­ages, which await the tai­lors.” The sec­ond, which begins in the back of the house, shows how these tai­lors “receive their bun­dles of fab­ric and set about deci­pher­ing the cutter’s notes. Three weeks after a client’s mea­sure­ments have been tak­en, his suit will be ready for a first fit­ting.”

Empha­sis on “first”: though the young man being fit­ted here only appears for one ses­sion, some bespoke suits can require two, three, or more, worn each time as a wear­able rough draft held togeth­er with bright white thread and marked up for lat­er cor­rec­tion. This reflects not the tai­lor’s inabil­i­ty to get it right the first time, but the rig­or­ous desire of the Sav­ile Row habitué for an ide­al fit. (Ander­son & Shep­pard’s list of for­mer clients include such noto­ri­ous­ly per­fec­tion­ist dressers as Fred Astaire, Bryan Fer­ry, and Prince Charles.) Watch­ing this process from start fin­ish under­scores the truth of those famous words, “The dif­fer­ence between style and fash­ion is qual­i­ty” — famous words spo­ken by no less a detrac­tor of Sav­ile Row than Gior­gio Armani, but true ones nonethe­less.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dress Like an Intel­lec­tu­al Icon with Japan­ese Coats Inspired by the Wardrobes of Camus, Sartre, Duchamp, Le Cor­busier & Oth­ers

Recall­ing Albert Camus’ Fash­ion Advice, Noam Chom­sky Pans Glenn Greenwald’s Shiny Pur­ple Tie

Fash­ion Design­ers in 1939 Pre­dict How Peo­ple Would Dress in the Year 2000

Browse a Col­lec­tion of Over 83,500 Vin­tage Sewing Pat­terns

How Ladies & Gen­tle­men Got Dressed in the 18th Cen­tu­ry: It Was a Pret­ty Involved Process

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­terBooks on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Innovative Pinscreen Animations of Kafka’s “Before the Law”, Gogol’s “The Nose” & Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain” (1932–1972)

What do Franz Kaf­ka, Niko­lai Gogol, and Mod­est Mus­sorgsky have in com­mon? They stand alone among their peers for their dark­ly humor­ous sen­si­bil­i­ties, fas­ci­na­tion with the grotesque, imag­i­na­tive takes on cul­tur­al tra­di­tions, and a pre­dis­po­si­tion for the pro­to-sur­re­al. Like the odd fig­ure lurch­ing through the first move­ment of Mussorgsky’s Pic­tures at an Exhi­bi­tion, they are gnom­ic artists: enig­mat­ic and ambigu­ous, giv­en to the apho­ris­tic in sto­ries and tone poems of mon­strous and mar­velous beings. It’s easy to imag­ine the three of them, or their works at least, in cryp­tic con­ver­sa­tion with each oth­er.

We might imag­ine that con­ver­sa­tion as we watch three works by these major Euro­pean artists—all of which we’ve fea­tured on the site before—animated via the painstak­ing pin­screen method pio­neered by hus­band-and-wife, Russ­ian-and-French duo Alexan­der Alex­eieff and Claire Park­er.

The two invent­ed the tech­nique in the 1930s. Ded­i­cat­ed to this extreme­ly labor-inten­sive process, they made 6 short films over a peri­od of 50 years, includ­ing adap­ta­tions of Kafka’s “Before the Law,” nar­rat­ed by Orson Welles, Gogol’s “The Nose,” and Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Moun­tain.

We know the Mus­sorgsky piece as a ter­ri­fy­ing vignette from Walt Disney’s Fan­ta­sia. Sev­en years before that mar­riage of clas­si­cal music and ani­ma­tion came out in 1940, Alex­eieff and Park­er released their ver­sion, at the top. Steve Stanch­field at Car­toon Research calls it “one of the most unusu­al and unique look­ing ani­mat­ed films ever cre­at­ed.” Its “delight­ful and at times hor­ri­fy­ing imagery… chal­lenge the view­er to com­pre­hend both their mean­ing and the mys­tery of how they were cre­at­ed.” The same could be said of “The Nose” (1963), whose impro­vised sound­track by Hai-Minh adds dra­mat­ic ten­sion to the eerie ani­ma­tion.

Each of these films uses the same method, a hand­made pin­screen device in which thou­sands of pins are pushed by hand out­ward and inward for each frame to cre­ate areas of light or dark. The pair intend­ed to move beyond the flat­ness of con­ven­tion­al cel ani­ma­tion tech­niques and cap­ture the depth and con­trast of chiaroscuro. They achieved this through the most aching­ly slow process imag­in­able, yet “the illu­sion of dimen­sion­al draw­ing in ani­ma­tion has rarely been cre­at­ed bet­ter,” Stanch­field writes, not even in the most sophis­ti­cat­ed com­put­er-gen­er­at­ed imagery.

Alex­eieff and Parker’s “Before the Law,” from a para­ble in Kafka’s The Tri­al, takes a pic­ture-book approach to the ani­ma­tion that would reward younger view­ers. Welles’ nar­ra­tion anchors the pro­duc­tion with even more than his usu­al grav­i­tas. In 1972, they returned to Mus­sorgsky, in the short Pic­tures at an Exhi­bi­tion, above. Here, after a pro­logue in French and the styl­iza­tions of the open­ing Pre­lude, the fig­ure of the “The Gnome” appears, a translu­cent homuncu­lus hatch­ing from an egg and danc­ing across the piano keys. I like to think Mus­sorgsky, Kaf­ka, and Gogol would find this imagery irre­sistible.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Kafka’s Para­ble “Before the Law” Nar­rat­ed by Orson Welles & Illus­trat­ed with Pin­screen Art

Night on Bald Moun­tain: An Eery, Avant-Garde Pin­screen Ani­ma­tion Based on Mussorgsky’s Mas­ter­piece

Niko­lai Gogol’s Clas­sic Sto­ry, “The Nose,” Ani­mat­ed With the Aston­ish­ing Pin­screen Tech­nique (1963)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness.

The Renewed Popularity of Chess and The Queen’s Gambit: Pretty Much Pop Culture Podcast Discussion #78 with Chess Expert J.J. Lang

The high lev­el of inter­est in Net­flix’s adap­ta­tion of the 1984 Wal­ter Tevis nov­el, The Queen’s Gam­bit has brought this most pop­u­lar game back to the fore­front of pop cul­ture. Chess expert/teacher J.J. (who’s also a grad stu­dent in phi­los­o­phy) joins your hosts Mark Lin­sen­may­er, Eri­ca Spyres, and Bri­an Hirt to con­sid­er chess cul­ture, what gives this game its edge on oth­er con­tenders (why not Ter­ra Mys­ti­ca?), play­er per­son­al­i­ty char­ac­ter­is­tics, and the effect of chess media.

We con­sid­er gen­der, genius, and oth­er issues in Gam­bit, plus Pawn Sac­ri­ficeSearch­ing for Bob­by Fish­erThe Luzhin Defense, and The Cold­est Game.

A few arti­cles and lists:

Watch J.J. on stream on Twitch. Oth­er inter­views he’s done: Per­pet­u­al ChessFriends and Ene­miesAakaash

Hear more of this pod­cast at prettymuchpop.com. This episode includes bonus dis­cus­sion about more chess films and oth­er top­ics that you can access by sup­port­ing the pod­cast at patreon.com/prettymuchpop. This pod­cast is part of the Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life pod­cast net­work.

Pret­ty Much Pop: A Cul­ture Pod­cast is the first pod­cast curat­ed by Open Cul­ture. Browse all Pret­ty Much Pop posts.

Prince’s First Television Interview (1985)

By 1985, Prince had made appear­ances on Amer­i­can Band­stand and Sat­ur­day Night Live, toured the world sev­er­al times, and released sev­en stu­dio albums, includ­ing the ground­break­ing Pur­ple Rain and less-than-ground­break­ing accom­pa­ny­ing film, for which he won an Oscar. He had inad­ver­tent­ly helped launch Tip­per Gore’s Par­ents Music Resource Coun­cil after she caught her daugh­ter lis­ten­ing to “Dar­ling Nik­ki.” He was a bona fide glob­al super­star and one of the biggest-sell­ing artists of the decade. And he had yet to give a sin­gle inter­view.

Well, this isn’t entire­ly true. Dur­ing his Amer­i­can Band­stand appear­ance in 1979, the 19-year-old funk wun­derkind respond­ed to ques­tions from Dick Clark with a few guard­ed, one-word answers. He also gave an inter­view to his high school news­pa­per, telling them “I think it is very hard for a band to make it in [Min­neapo­lis], even if they’re good. Main­ly because there aren’t any big record com­pa­nies or stu­dios in this state. I real­ly feel that if we would have lived in Los Ange­les or New York or some oth­er big city, we would have got­ten over by now.”

Prince got over soon enough, but he didn’t seem at all eager to talk about him­self, one of the pri­ma­ry respon­si­bil­i­ties of a pop star. It was as though he knew he was so good he didn’t have to adver­tise. Soon after the release of his sev­enth album, Around the World in a Day—the source of such hits as “Rasp­ber­ry Beret” and “Pais­ley Park”—he gave an inter­view to Rolling Stone (who described the “Kung Fu Grasshop­per voice with which Prince whis­pers when meet­ing strangers or accept­ing Acad­e­my Awards.”)

He also agreed to appear on a new cable tele­vi­sion sta­tion called MTV. The inter­view, above, begins with the expect­ed ques­tion, “Why were you so secre­tive pri­or to this?” Prince, sur­round­ed by a cohort of young audi­ence mem­bers, says he was “home­sick” and pouts. Then we imme­di­ate­ly get a bet­ter answer to the ques­tion when the inter­view­er asks whether Prince’s need for con­trol came from a trou­bled child­hood. He sneers, calls the ques­tion “hor­ri­ble,” and answers a bet­ter one about how he found his musi­cal direc­tion and han­dled dis­agree­ments with his band­mates.

The tone remains strange­ly com­bat­ive and Prince remains eeri­ly calm, but his expres­sive face reg­is­ters irri­ta­tion and amuse­ment. “I strive for orig­i­nal­i­ty in my music,” he says. He also “remem­bers how he was influ­enced by James Brown after danc­ing on stage with him at just 10 years old, touch­es on com­par­isons to musi­cians like Jimi Hen­drix and answers provoca­tive ques­tions about ‘sell­ing out to white audi­ences’ with Pur­ple Rain,” writes the Vinyl Fac­to­ry. Watch the full inter­view above and see if you can bet­ter under­stand why Prince avoid­ed inter­views, or why inter­view­ers tried so hard to box him into stereo­typ­i­cal roles.

via Messy Nessy

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Read Prince’s First Inter­view, Print­ed in His High School News­pa­per (1976)

Aca­d­e­m­ic Jour­nal Devotes an Entire Issue to Prince’s Life & Music: Read and Down­load It for Free

Four Clas­sic Prince Songs Re-Imag­ined as Pulp Fic­tion Cov­ers: When Doves Cry, Lit­tle Red Corvette & More

The Prince Online Muse­um Archives 16 of Prince’s Offi­cial Web Sites, Span­ning 20 Years

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Rarely-Seen Illustrations of Dante’s Divine Comedy Are Now Free Online, Courtesy of the Uffizi Gallery

We know Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy—espe­cial­ly its famous first third, Infer­no—as an extend­ed the­o­log­i­cal trea­tise, epic love poem, and vicious satire of church hypocrisy and the Flo­ren­tine polit­i­cal fac­tion that exiled Dante from the city of his birth in 1302. Most of us don’t know it the way its first read­ers did (and as Dante schol­ars do): a com­pendi­um in which “a num­ber of medieval lit­er­ary gen­res are digest­ed and com­bined,” as Robert M. Durl­ing writes in his trans­la­tion of the Infer­no.

These lit­er­ary gen­res include ver­nac­u­lar tra­di­tions of romance poet­ry from Provence, pop­u­lar long before Dante turned his Tus­can dialect into a lit­er­ary lan­guage to rival Latin. They include “the dream-vision (exem­pli­fied by the Old French Romance of the Rose)”; “accounts of jour­neys to the Oth­er­world (such as the Visio Pauli, Saint Patrick’s Pur­ga­to­ry, the Nav­i­ga­tio Sanc­ti Bren­dani)”; and Scholas­tic philo­soph­i­cal alle­go­ry, among oth­er well-known forms of writ­ing at the time.

By the time the Divine Com­e­dy cap­tured imag­i­na­tions in the peri­od of incunab­u­la, or the infan­cy of the print­ed book, many of these asso­ci­a­tions and influ­ences had reced­ed. And by the time of the Counter-Ref­or­ma­tion, the poem most impressed read­ers and illus­tra­tors of the text as a divine plan for a tor­ture cham­ber and an ency­clo­pe­dia of the tor­tures there­in. What­ev­er oth­er asso­ci­a­tions we have with Dante’s poem, we all know the nine cir­cles of hell and have an omi­nous sense of what goes on there.

No doubt we also have in our mind’s eye some of the hun­dreds of illus­tra­tions made of the text’s grue­some depic­tions of hell, from San­dro Bot­ti­cel­li to Robert Rauschen­berg. Illus­trat­ed edi­tions of Dante’s poem began appear­ing in 1472, and the first ful­ly illus­trat­ed edi­tion in 1491. By the late 16th cen­tu­ry, the poem had become a lit­er­ary clas­sic (the word Divine joined Com­e­dy in the title in 1555). By this time, the tra­di­tion of depict­ing a lit­er­al, rather than a lit­er­ary, hell was firm­ly estab­lished.

It was in this peri­od that Fred­eri­co Zuc­cari made the beau­ti­ful illus­tra­tions you see here, com­plet­ed, Angela Giuf­fri­da writes at The Guardian, “dur­ing a stay in Spain between 1586 and 1588. Of the 88 illus­tra­tions, 28 are depic­tions of hell, 49 of pur­ga­to­ry and 11 of heav­en. After Zuccari’s death in 1609, the draw­ings were held by the noble Orsi­ni fam­i­ly, for whom the artist had worked, and lat­er by the Medici fam­i­ly before becom­ing part of the Uffizi col­lec­tion in 1738.”

The pen­cil-and-ink draw­ings have rarely been seen before because of their frag­ile con­di­tion. They were only exhib­it­ed pub­licly for the first time in 1865 for the 600th anniver­sary of Dante’s birth and of Ital­ian uni­fi­ca­tion. Now, they are on dis­play, vir­tu­al­ly, for free, as part of a “year-long cal­en­dar of events to mark the 700th anniver­sary of the poet’s death.” This is an extra­or­di­nary oppor­tu­ni­ty to see these illus­tra­tions, which have until now “only been seen by a few schol­ars and dis­played to the pub­lic only twice, and only in part,” says Uffizi direc­tor Eike Schmidt.

Much of the promised “didac­tic-sci­en­tif­ic com­ment” to accom­pa­ny each draw­ing is marked as “upcom­ing” on the Eng­lish ver­sion of the Uffizi site, but you can see high res­o­lu­tion scans of each draw­ing and zoom in to exam­ine the many tor­tures of the damned and the grotesque demons who tor­ment them. Learn much more at Khan Acad­e­my about how Dante’s lit­er­ary epic in terza rima left “a last­ing impres­sion on the West­ern imag­i­na­tion for more than half a mil­len­ni­um,” solid­i­fy­ing and reshap­ing images of hell “into new guis­es that would become famil­iar to count­less gen­er­a­tions that fol­lowed.” If you like, you can also take a free course on Dan­te’s Divine Com­e­dy from Yale Uni­ver­si­ty.

via MyMod­ern­Met/The Guardian

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Why Should We Read Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy? An Ani­mat­ed Video Makes the Case

A Dig­i­tal Archive of the Ear­li­est Illus­trat­ed Edi­tions of Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy (1487–1568)

Artists Illus­trate Dante’s Divine Com­e­dy Through the Ages: Doré, Blake, Bot­ti­cel­li, Mœbius & More

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Brâncuși Captures His Sculpture & Life on Film: Watch Rare Footage Shot Between 1923–1939

Here in the ear­ly 21st cen­tu­ry, even the non-artists among us car­ry dig­i­tal video cam­eras in our pock­ets. Back in the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry, the abil­i­ty to film your own life and work, or that of your coterie, was­n’t so close at hand — unless, of course, you ran with the avant-garde. Con­stan­tin Brân­cuși did, hav­ing been brought into the artis­tic and intel­lec­tu­al scene of the Paris of the 1910s, to which he’d made his way from his native Roma­nia. He even­tu­al­ly count­ed among his friends the likes of Pablo Picas­so, Ezra Pound, Mar­cel Duchamp, Guil­laume Apol­li­naire, Tris­tan Tzara, and Man Ray, who got the inno­v­a­tive, hard­work­ing and famous­ly low-tech sculp­tor prac­tic­ing cin­e­ma.

“In the ear­ly 1920s, Man Ray, who had pre­vi­ous­ly taught Con­stan­tin Brân­cuși how to han­dle a still cam­era, intro­duced him to the movie cam­era,” says Ubuweb in a descrip­tion of “fifty min­utes of film, shot between 1923 and 1939,” that rep­re­sents “the sum total of all the images ever filmed by Brân­cuși.”

The artist “makes use of fram­ing, shad­ows, inci­den­tal light and refrac­tion in order to acti­vate the plas­tic prop­er­ties of his sculp­tures, and opens up this visu­al analy­sis to move­ment and to time.” Pieces such as Leda and the scan­dalous Princess X become the sub­jects of their own sequences; lat­er, we wit­ness “Bran­cusi’s jour­ney to Roma­nia and the con­struc­tion of the End­less Col­umn in Târ­gu Jiu.”

These End­less Col­umn pas­sages, as art crit­ic Blake Gop­nik sees them, show “Brân­cuși obsessed with how his soar­ing sculp­ture comes to life in the open air.” From all this footage Gop­nik gets the sense that Brân­cuși was “less inter­est­ed in mak­ing fan­cy muse­um objects than in putting new kinds of almost-liv­ing things into the world,” and indeed draw­ing inspi­ra­tion from the liv­ing things of the world: “In one of the clips, Brân­cuși turns his cam­era on a pac­ing hawk, which comes across as a close, nat­ur­al ana­log to the many ‘birds’ he cre­at­ed as sculp­tures.” Anoth­er “shows one of his stone pedestals, which meant as much to him as the sculp­tures set on them, sup­port­ing a live flap­per doing an ecsta­t­ic dance” — cap­ti­vat­ing evi­dence of his inter­est in forms of life beyond the avian.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rare Film of Sculp­tor Auguste Rodin Work­ing at His Stu­dio in Paris (1915)

Man Ray’s Por­traits of Ernest Hem­ing­way, Ezra Pound, Mar­cel Duchamp & Many Oth­er 1920s Icons

Watch Dreams That Mon­ey Can Buy, a Sur­re­al­ist Film by Man Ray, Mar­cel Duchamp, Alexan­der Calder, Fer­nand Léger & Hans Richter

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­terBooks on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Ursula K. Le Guin Stamp Getting Released by the US Postal Service

Here’s one thing that’s going right with Amer­i­ca’s decay­ing postal sys­tem. They write on the USPS web site: “The 33rd stamp in the Lit­er­ary Arts series hon­ors Ursu­la K. Le Guin (1929–2018), who expand­ed the scope of lit­er­a­ture through nov­els and short sto­ries that increased crit­i­cal and pop­u­lar appre­ci­a­tion of sci­ence fic­tion and fan­ta­sy. The stamp fea­tures a por­trait of Le Guin based on a 2006 pho­to­graph. The back­ground shows a scene from her land­mark 1969 nov­el “The Left Hand of Dark­ness,” in which an envoy from Earth named Gen­ly Ai escapes from a prison camp across the win­try plan­et of Geth­en with Estra­ven, a dis­graced Geth­en­ian politi­cian. The artist for this stamp was Dona­to Gian­co­la. The art direc­tor was Anto­nio Alcalá. The words “three ounce” on this stamp indi­cate its usage val­ue. Like a For­ev­er stamp, this stamp will always be valid for the val­ue print­ed on it.” The postal ser­vice has not said pre­cise­ly when the stamp will be released.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ursu­la K. Le Guin’s Dai­ly Rou­tine: The Dis­ci­pline That Fueled Her Imag­i­na­tion

When Ursu­la K. Le Guin & Philip K. Dick Went to High School Togeth­er

Ursu­la K. Le Guin Names the Books She Likes and Wants You to Read

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How Levi’s 501 Jeans Became Iconic: A Short Documentary Featuring John Baldessari, Henry Rollins, Lee Ranaldo & More

In his mem­oir Liv­ing Care­less­ly in Tokyo and Else­where, the Amer­i­can Japa­nol­o­gist John Nathan remem­bers evenings in the 1960s spent with Yukio Mishi­ma, whose work he trans­lat­ed into Eng­lish. “I lis­tened rapt­ly as he recit­ed pas­sages from The Tale of the Heike that revealed the fierce­ness and del­i­ca­cy of Japan’s war­rior-poets, or showed me the fine cal­i­bra­tion of the Chi­nese spec­trum,” Nathan writes. “One night he stood up abrupt­ly from behind his desk, asked me to wait a minute, and left the room. When he came back he had changed into a pair of blue jeans and a thick black leather belt. He explained that he had been sand­pa­per­ing the jeans to make them iden­ti­cal to the pair Mar­lon Bran­do had worn in The Wild One.”

Even a fig­ure like Mishi­ma, who with­in a few years would die in an ultra­na­tion­al­is­tic rit­u­al sui­cide after a hope­less attempt­ed coup, felt the allure of Amer­i­can blue jeans. Though Nathan does­n’t note whether Mishi­ma’s pair were gen­uine Lev­i’s 501s, the exact­ing stan­dards to which Mishi­ma held him­self in all respects would seem to demand that mea­sure of authen­tic­i­ty.

“Authen­tic­i­ty,” of course, is a qual­i­ty from which Levi Strauss & Co. have drawn a great deal of val­ue for their brand, their sig­na­ture riv­et­ed den­im prod­uct going back as it does near­ly a cen­tu­ry and a half, to a time when rugged pants were in great demand from the min­ers of Cal­i­for­ni­a’s gold rush. But it was in the eco­nom­i­cal­ly flush and new­ly media-sat­u­rat­ed decades after the Sec­ond World War that jeans took their hold on the Amer­i­can imag­i­na­tion, and soon on the world’s.

The pants, the myth, and the leg­end star in The 501 Jean: Sto­ries of an Orig­i­nal, a three-part series of short doc­u­men­taries pro­duced by Lev­i’s them­selves and nar­rat­ed by Amer­i­can folk singer Ram­blin’ Jack Elliott. Its gallery of 501-wear­ers includes such job titles as Musi­cian, Pho­tog­ra­ph­er, Gar­men­tol­o­gist, Bik­er, Cre­ative Direc­tor, Music/Style Con­sul­tant, and Urban Cow­boy. Con­cep­tu­al artist John Baldessari dis­cuss­es the child­hood love of cow­boy shows that lodged jeans per­ma­nent­ly into his world­view. Album design­er Gary Bur­den brings out his own work, a copy of Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush, to demon­strate the impact of jeans on pop­u­lar music. That both Bur­den and Baldessari have passed away since these videos’ pro­duc­tion under­scores the cur­rent fast depar­ture of the gen­er­a­tions who took jeans from the realm of the util­i­tar­i­an into that of the icon­ic — some of whose mem­bers have doubt­less cho­sen to be buried in their 501s.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dress Like an Intel­lec­tu­al Icon with Japan­ese Coats Inspired by the Wardrobes of Camus, Sartre, Duchamp, Le Cor­busier & Oth­ers

What Hap­pens to the Clothes We Throw Away?: Watch Unrav­el, a Short Doc­u­men­tary on the Jour­ney Our Waste Takes

Google Cre­ates a Dig­i­tal Archive of World Fash­ion: Fea­tures 30,000 Images, Cov­er­ing 3,000 Years of Fash­ion His­to­ry

A Brief His­to­ry of John Baldessari (RIP) Nar­rat­ed by Tom Waits: A Trib­ute to the Late “God­fa­ther of Con­cep­tu­al Art”

Hen­ry Rollins Tells Young Peo­ple to Avoid Resent­ment and to Pur­sue Suc­cess with a “Monas­tic Obses­sion”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­terBooks on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

The Deadliest Garden in the World: Visit Alnwick’s Poison Garden in Northumberland, England

The mind reels to think of all the ear­ly humans who sac­ri­ficed them­selves, unwit­ting­ly, in the pre­his­toric quest to learn which plants were safe to eat, which were suit­able for heal­ing, and which would maim or kill who­ev­er who touched them. Even now, of course, the great major­i­ty of us rely on experts to make these dis­tinc­tions for us. Unless we’re steeped in field train­ing and/or folk knowl­edge, it’s safe to say most of us wouldn’t have a clue how to avoid poi­son­ing our­selves in the wild.

This need not over­ly con­cern us on a vis­it to The Poi­son Gar­den, how­ev­er. Nes­tled in man­i­cured lanes at Alnwick Gar­den, “one of north England’s most beau­ti­ful attrac­tions,” Natasha Geil­ing writes at Smith­son­ian, the Poi­son Gar­den includes such infa­mous killers as hem­lock, Atropa bel­ladon­na (a.k.a. Dead­ly Night­shade), and Strych­nos nux-vom­i­ca, the source of strych­nine, in its col­lec­tions. Just don’t touch the plants and you should be fine. Oh, and also, guides tell vis­i­tors, “don’t even smell them.” It should go with­out say­ing that tast­ing is out.

The Poi­son Gar­den is hard­ly the main attrac­tion at Alnwick, in Northum­ber­land. The cas­tle itself was used as the set­ting for Hog­warts in the first two Har­ry Pot­ter films. The 14 acres of con­tro­ver­sial mod­ern land­scape gardens–designed by the flam­boy­ant Jane Per­cy, Duchess of Northum­ber­land–have become famous in their own right, in part for vio­lat­ing “England’s archi­tec­tur­al pat­ri­mo­ny,” a scan­dal you can read about here. (One gar­den design­er and crit­ic called it a “pop­u­lar enter­tain­ment, the dream of a girl who looks like Posh and lives at Hog­warts.”)

The duchess responds to crit­i­cism of her extrav­a­gant designs with a shrug. “A lot of my ideas come from Las Vegas and Euro Dis­ney,” she admits. The Poi­son Gar­den has a much more ven­er­a­ble source, the Orto Botan­i­co in Pad­ua, the old­est extant aca­d­e­m­ic botan­i­cal gar­den, found­ed in 1545, with its own poi­son gar­den that dates to the time of the Medicis. After a vis­it, Per­cy “became enthralled with the idea of cre­at­ing a gar­den of plants that could kill instead of heal,” writes Geil­ing. She thought of it, specif­i­cal­ly, as “a way to inter­est chil­dren.” As the duchess says:

Chil­dren don’t care that aspirin comes from the bark of a tree. What’s real­ly inter­est­ing is to know how a plant kills you, and how the patient dies, and what you feel like before you die.

What child doesn’t won­der about such things? And if we teach kids how to avoid poi­so­nous plants, they can keep the rest of us alive should we have to retreat into the woods and become for­agers again. The Poi­son Gar­den also grows plants from which com­mon recre­ation­al drugs derive, like cannabis and cocaine, “as a jump­ing-off point for drug edu­ca­tion,” Geil­ing points out.

Pro­vid­ed vis­i­tors fol­low the rules, the gar­den is safe, “although some peo­ple still occa­sion­al­ly faint from inhal­ing tox­ic fumes,” Alnwick Garden’s web­site warns. And while it’s designed to attract and edu­cate kids, there’s a lit­tle some­thing for every­one. Percy’s favorite poi­so­nous plant, for exam­ple, Brug­man­sia, or angel’s trum­pet, acts as a pow­er­ful aphro­disi­ac before it kills. She explains with glee that “Vic­to­ri­an ladies would often keep a flower from the plant on their card tables and add small amounts of its pollen to their tea to incite an LSD-like trip.” You can learn many oth­er fas­ci­nat­ing facts about plants that kill, and do oth­er things, at Alnwick’s Poi­son Gar­den when the world opens up again.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Oliv­er Sacks Pro­motes the Heal­ing Pow­er of Gar­dens: They’re “More Pow­er­ful Than Any Med­ica­tion”

Denmark’s Utopi­an Gar­den City Built Entire­ly in Cir­cles: See Astound­ing Aer­i­al Views of Brønd­by Have­by

What Voltaire Meant When He Said That “We Must Cul­ti­vate Our Gar­den”: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Wilhelm Reich’s Orgone Energy Accumulator Was Beloved by William S. Burroughs and Banned by the FDA: Find Plans to Build the Controversial Device Online

Was Aus­tri­an Marx­ist psy­cho­an­a­lyst Wil­helm Reich a tren­chant socio-polit­i­cal thinker or a total crank? A fraud or a prophet? Maybe a lit­tle from each col­umn, at dif­fer­ent times dur­ing the course of his bizarre career. An enthu­si­as­tic stu­dent of Sig­mund Freud, Reich applied his teacher’s the­o­ries of repressed libido to the fright­en­ing polit­i­cal the­ater of the 1930s, writ­ing against the spread of Nazism in his pre­scient 1933 book The Mass Psy­chol­o­gy of Fas­cism. Here, Reich brought Marx and Freud togeth­er to argue that sex­u­al inhi­bi­tion and fear led to arrest­ed devel­op­ment and sub­mis­sion to author­i­tar­i­an­ism.

Reich was “a sex­u­al evan­ge­list,” Christop­er Turn­er writes at The Guardian, “who held that sat­is­fac­to­ry orgasm made the dif­fer­ence between sick­ness and health.” His work was banned and burned by the Nazis, and he fled to a suc­ces­sion of Scan­di­na­vian coun­tries, then to the U.S. in 1939, “by which time his for­mer psy­cho­an­a­lyt­ic col­leagues were ques­tion­ing his san­i­ty.” The pri­ma­ry rea­son for their sus­pi­cion: Reich’s devo­tion to what he called “orgone,” an all-per­va­sive sex­u­al ener­gy that per­me­ates the uni­verse… accord­ing to Reich. Orgone and relat­ed con­cepts appear in his ear­ly work, but by the end of the 1930s, they came to entire­ly dom­i­nate his think­ing.

“In the strange and col­or­ful his­to­ry of pseu­do­science, Wil­helm Reich’s ‘dis­cov­ery’ of orgone—a sub­stance that’s not only a life force, but indeed makes up the very fab­ric of space—must sure­ly be a water­shed,” writes Matt Simon at Wired. Reich inten­si­fied his belief in the glow­ing blue ener­gy of orgone with the inven­tion of the Orgone Ener­gy Accu­mu­la­tor, an iso­la­tion box that sup­pos­ed­ly charged those who sat inside it with the pow­er of orgone. The device went through a few iter­a­tions (see the use of the “orgone blan­ket, above), until its final form of a met­al-lined box rough­ly the size of a wardrobe or tele­phone booth.

Reich’s influ­ence on 20th cen­tu­ry cul­ture goes far beyond the cre­ation of this weird device. He might be said to have pre­dict­ed and pre­cip­i­tat­ed what he him­self called the “sex­u­al rev­o­lu­tion.” (“No pow­er on earth will stop it,” Reich wrote in the 30s.) Crit­ics dis­missed his belief in the lib­er­at­ing poten­tial of free love as a “geni­tial utopia.” Their scorn mat­tered lit­tle to the coun­ter­cul­tur­al fig­ures who picked up and dis­sem­i­nat­ed his work. “Almost a cen­tu­ry” after Reich’s inven­tion of orgone, writes Simon, “his bonkers ideas live on,” includ­ing the notion that near­ly every health con­di­tion can be traced to an imbal­ance of orgone ener­gy.

The Orgone Accu­mu­la­tor was pop­u­lar­ized by William S. Bur­roughs, a true believer—as he was in many things, from Sci­en­tol­ogy to Shamanism—and an enthu­si­as­tic pro­mot­er of “life in orgone box­es.” (Jack Ker­ouac called Bur­roughs’ accu­mu­la­tor a “mys­ti­cal out­house” in On the Road.) Bur­roughs swore by the accu­mu­la­tor and wrote a 1977 arti­cle for Oui mag­a­zine in which he defend­ed Reich’s claims that time spent in the sealed box might cure cancer—a claim that prompt­ed the FDA to file an injunc­tion against Reich in 1954 to stop use of the device and lit­er­a­ture per­tain­ing to it.

“Reich con­tin­ued prof­it­ing from the accu­mu­la­tors,” writes Simon, “and the court found him in con­tempt of the injunc­tion. He was sen­tenced to fed­er­al prison, where he died in 1957.” Devo­tees of his work have defend­ed him ever since. (“Who is the FDA,” wrote Bur­roughs indig­nant­ly, “to deprive can­cer patients of any treat­ment that could be effi­ca­cious?”). James DeMeo, Ph.D., direc­tor of the Orgone Bio­phys­i­cal Research Lab­o­ra­to­ry in Ash­land Ore­gon, has recent­ly released the 3rd, revised and expand­ed, edi­tion of his Orgone Accu­mu­la­tor Hand­book, a thor­ough ref­er­ence guide, “with con­struc­tion plans.”

Should you have the desire to build your own “mys­ti­cal out­house,” DeMeo’s text would seem to be a defin­i­tive ref­er­ence. Pro­ceed at your own risk. Wil­helm Reich’s orgone ther­a­py remains square­ly on a list of treat­ments unap­proved by the FDA. The FBI, on the oth­er hand, who “have a whole sec­tion on their web­site ded­i­cat­ed to Wil­helm Reich,” notes Mary Bel­lis, found no cause to pros­e­cute the Aus­tri­an psy­chol­o­gist. “In 1947,” they note, “a secu­ri­ty inves­ti­ga­tion con­clud­ed that nei­ther the Orgone Project nor any of its staff were engaged in sub­ver­sive activ­i­ties.” But what could have been more sub­ver­sive to the post-war U.S. estab­lish­ment than main­tain­ing the world’s ills could be cured by real­ly good sex? Down­load a free copy of DeMeo’s book here.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

William S. Bur­roughs’ Man­i­festo for Over­throw­ing a Cor­rupt Gov­ern­ment with Fake News and Oth­er Prophet­ic Meth­ods: It’s Now Pub­lished for the First Time

A Look Inside William S. Bur­roughs’ Bunker

The Famous Break Up of Sig­mund Freud & Carl Jung Explained in a New Ani­mat­ed Video

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

A Magical Look Inside the Painting Process of Studio Ghibli Artist Kazuo Oga

The mag­ic of Stu­dio Ghi­b­li’s films owes much to their char­ac­ters: the high-fly­ing Princess Nau­si­caä of the Val­ley of the Wind; the World War I‑fighter ace-turned-swine Por­co Rosso; the spir­it­ed ten-year-old Chi­hi­ro, spir­it­ed away into the realm of folk­lore; the dog-rac­coon-bear-cat for­est spir­it known only as Totoro. But to under­stand what makes these fig­ures come alive, we must remem­ber that they inhab­it liv­ing worlds. A Ghi­b­li pro­duc­tion stands or falls (which would still count as an artis­tic tri­umph at most oth­er stu­dios) on not just char­ac­ter design and ani­ma­tion but back­ground art, which demands the kind of care­ful and inspired work you can wit­ness in the video above.

The artist at the desk is Kazuo Oga, a vet­er­an back­ground artist cred­it­ed as art direc­tor on Ghi­b­li’s My Neigh­bor Totoro, Only Yes­ter­day, Pom Poko, Princess Mononoke, and The Tale of Princess Kaguya, among oth­er ani­me projects. His work begins at about 9:30 in the morn­ing, as he brings out a mod­est­ly size sheet of paper and pre­pares its sur­face to receive paint.

24 dif­fer­ent col­ors of Japan­ese-made Nick­er Poster Col­or brand gouache stand ready right near­by, and with them Oga applies the ground, or first lay­er of paint. Even before he takes a seat, a for­est scene has clear­ly begun to emerge. Then down­ward strokes become the thin trunks of its trees, which by the ear­ly after­noon have branch­es.

Broad­ly speak­ing, Oga works from the large details in toward the small, arriv­ing mid­way through the 2:00 hour to the stage of adding light pur­ple flow­ers. These are Paulow­n­ia, called kiri in Japan, where these “princess trees” (that also appear on the offi­cial Gov­ern­ment Seal) car­ry a cer­tain sym­bol­ic weight. The final paint­ing, Paulow­n­ia Rain (or kiri same), emerges only at 3:40 in the after­noon, after six hours of paint­ing. This evoca­tive for­est land­scape attests to the truth of an inver­sion of the Pare­to prin­ci­ple, in that the parts of the job that seem small­est require most of the work to achieve — and to the truth of the Ghi­b­li’s appar­ent artis­tic prin­ci­ple that every pain is worth tak­ing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stu­dio Ghi­b­li Pro­duc­er Toshio Suzu­ki Teach­es You How to Draw Totoro in Two Min­utes

Hayao Miyazaki’s Sketch­es Show­ing How to Draw Char­ac­ters Run­ning: From 1980 Edi­tion of Ani­ma­tion Mag­a­zine

Watch Hayao Miyaza­ki Ani­mate the Final Shot of His Final Fea­ture Film, The Wind Ris­es

A Vir­tu­al Tour Inside the Hayao Miyazaki’s Stu­dio Ghi­b­li Muse­um

Stu­dio Ghi­b­li Makes 1,178 Images Free to Down­load from My Neigh­bor Totoro, Spir­it­ed Away & Oth­er Beloved Ani­mat­ed Films

Watch Every Episode of Bob Ross’ The Joy Of Paint­ing Free Online: 403 Episodes Span­ning 31 Sea­sons

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­terBooks on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.


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