How William S. Burroughs Embraced, Then Rejected Scientology, Forcing L. Ron Hubbard to Come to Its Defense (1959–1970)

Image by Chris­ti­aan Ton­nis, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

William S. Bur­roughs was a cul­tur­al prism. Through him, the mid-cen­tu­ry demi-monde of illic­it drug use and mar­gin­al­ized sexualities—of occult beliefs, alter­na­tive reli­gions, and bizarre con­spir­a­cy theories—was refract­ed on the page in exper­i­men­tal writ­ing that inspired every­one from his fel­low Beats to the punks of lat­er decades to name-your-coun­ter­cul­tur­al-touch­stone of the past fifty years or so. There are many such peo­ple in his­to­ry: those who go to the places that most fear to tread and send back reports writ­ten in lan­guage that alters real­i­ty. To quote L. Ron Hub­bard, anoth­er writer who pur­port­ed to do just that, “the world needs their William Bur­rough­ses.”

And Bur­roughs, so it appears, need­ed L. Ron Hub­bard, at least for most of the six­ties, when the writer became a devout fol­low­er of the Church of Sci­en­tol­ogy. The sci-fi-inspired “new reli­gious move­ment” that needs no fur­ther intro­duc­tion proved irre­sistible in 1959 when Bur­roughs met John and Mary Cooke, two found­ing mem­bers of the church who had been try­ing to recruit Bur­roughs’ friend and fre­quent artis­tic part­ner Brion Gysin. “Ulti­mate­ly,” writes Lee Kon­stan­ti­nou at io9, “it was Bur­roughs, not Gysin, who explored the Church that L. Ron Hub­bard built. Bur­roughs took Sci­en­tol­ogy so seri­ous­ly that he became a ‘Clear’ and almost became an ‘Oper­at­ing Thetan.’ ”

Bur­roughs immersed him­self with­out reser­va­tion in the prac­tices and prin­ci­ples of Sci­en­tol­ogy, writ­ing let­ters to Allen Gins­berg that same year in which he rec­om­mends his friend “con­tact [a] local chap­ter and find an audi­tor. They do the job with­out hyp­no­sis or drugs, sim­ply run the tape back and forth until the trau­ma is wiped off. It works. I have used the method—partially respon­si­ble for recent changes.” No doubt Bur­roughs had his share of per­son­al trau­ma to over­come, but he also found Sci­en­tol­ogy espe­cial­ly con­ducive to his greater cre­ative project of coun­ter­ing “the Reac­tive Mind… an ancient instru­ment of con­trol designed to stul­ti­fy and lim­it the poten­tial for action in a con­struc­tive or destruc­tive direc­tion.”

The method of “audit­ing” gave Bur­roughs a good deal of mate­r­i­al to work with in his fic­tion and film­mak­ing exper­i­ments. He and Gysin includ­ed Sci­en­tol­ogy’s lan­guage in a short 1961 film called “Tow­ers Open Fire,” which was, writes Kon­stan­ti­nou, “designed to show the process of con­trol sys­tems break­ing down.” Sci­en­tol­ogy appeared in 1962’s The Tick­et That Explod­ed and again in 1964’s Nova ExpressEach nov­el ref­er­ences the con­cept of “engrams,” which Bur­roughs suc­cinct­ly defines as “trau­mat­ic mate­r­i­al.” Dur­ing this huge­ly pro­duc­tive peri­od, the rad­i­cal­ly anti-author­i­tar­i­an Bur­roughs “asso­ci­at­ed the group with a range of mind-expand­ing and mind-free­ing prac­tices.”

It’s easy to say Bur­roughs uncrit­i­cal­ly par­took of a cer­tain sug­ary bev­er­age. But he clear­ly made his own idio­syn­crat­ic uses of Sci­en­tol­ogy, incor­po­rat­ing it with­in the syn­cret­ic con­stel­la­tion of ref­er­ences, prac­tices, and cut-up tech­niques “designed to jam up what he called ‘the Real­i­ty Stu­dio,’ aka the every­day, con­di­tioned, mind-con­trolled real­i­ty.” An inevitable turn­ing point came, how­ev­er, in 1968, as Bur­roughs jour­neyed deep­er into Scientology’s secret order at the world head­quar­ters in Saint Hill Manor in the UK. There, he report­ed, he “had to work hard to sup­press or ratio­nal­ize his per­sis­tent­ly neg­a­tive feel­ings toward L. Ron Hub­bard dur­ing audit­ing ses­sions.”

Bur­roughs’ dis­like of the church’s founder and extreme aver­sion to “what he con­sid­ered its Orwellian secu­ri­ty pro­to­cols” even­tu­at­ed his break with Sci­en­tol­ogy, which he under­took grad­u­al­ly and pub­licly in a series of “bul­letins” pub­lished dur­ing the late six­ties in the Lon­don mag­a­zine May­fair. Before his “clear­ing course” with Hub­bard, in a 1967 arti­cle excerpt­ed and repub­lished as a pam­phlet by the church itself, Bur­roughs prais­es Sci­en­tol­ogy and its founder, and claims that “there is noth­ing secret about Sci­en­tol­ogy, no talk of ini­ti­ates, secret doc­trines, or hid­den knowl­edge.”

By 1970, he had made an about-face, in a fierce­ly polem­i­cal essay titled “I, William Bur­roughs, Chal­lenge You, L. Ron Hub­bard,” pub­lished in the Los Ange­les Free Press. While he con­tin­ues to val­ue some of the ben­e­fits of audit­ing, Bur­roughs declares the church’s founder “grandiose” and “fas­cist” and lays out his objec­tions to its ini­ti­a­tions, secret doc­trines, and hid­den knowl­edge, among oth­er things:

…One does not sim­ply pay the tuitions, obtain the mate­ri­als and study. Oh no. One must JOIN. One must ‘sign up for the dura­tion of the uni­verse’ (Sea Org mem­bers are required to sign a bil­lion-year con­tract)…. Fur­ther­more whole cat­e­gories of peo­ple are auto­mat­i­cal­ly exclud­ed from train­ing and pro­cess­ing and may nev­er see Mr Hubbard’s con­fi­den­tial mate­ri­als.

Bur­roughs chal­lenges Hub­bard to “show his con­fi­den­tial mate­ri­als to the astro­nauts of inner space,” includ­ing Gysin, Gins­berg, and Tim­o­thy Leary; to the “stu­dents of lan­guage like Mar­shall MacLuhan and Noam Chomp­sky” [sic]; and to “those who have fought for free­dom in the streets: Eldridge Cleaver, Stoke­ly Carmichael, Abe Hoff­man, Dick Gre­go­ry…. If he has what he says he has, the results should be cat­a­clysmic.”

The debate con­tin­ued in the pages of May­fair when Hub­bard pub­lished a lengthy and bland­ly genial reply to Bur­roughs’ chal­lenge, in an arti­cle that also con­tained, in an inset, a brief rebut­tal from Bur­roughs. The debate will sure­ly be of inter­est to stu­dents of the strange his­to­ry of Sci­en­tol­ogy, and it should most cer­tain­ly be fol­lowed by lovers of Bur­roughs’ work. In the process of embrac­ing, then reject­ing, the con­trol­ling move­ment, he com­pelling­ly artic­u­lates a need for “unimag­in­able exten­sions of aware­ness” to deal with the trau­ma of liv­ing on what he calls the “sink­ing ship” of plan­et Earth.

via io9

Relat­ed Con­tent:

William S. Bur­roughs Tells the Sto­ry of How He Start­ed Writ­ing with the Cut-Up Tech­nique

When William S. Bur­roughs Appeared on Sat­ur­day Night Live: His First TV Appear­ance (1981)

Hear a Great Radio Doc­u­men­tary on William S. Bur­roughs Nar­rat­ed by Iggy Pop

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

Modernist Birdhouses Inspired by Bauhaus, Frank Lloyd Wright and Joseph Eichler

Study nature, love nature, stay close to nature. It will nev­er fail you. — Frank Lloyd Wright

Is there a design geek lurk­ing among your fine feath­ered friends?

Some chick­adee or finch who val­ues clean lines over the frip­peries of the gild­ed cage?

Or per­haps you’re a bird lover who’s loathe to junk up your mid-cen­tu­ry mod­ernist view by hang­ing a folksy minia­ture salt­box from a branch out­side the kitchen win­dow.…

Cal­i­for­nia-based cab­i­net­mak­er Dou­glas Barn­hard’s Bauhaus bird­hous­es offer a min­i­mal­ist solu­tion.

No word on the inte­ri­ors, but the exte­ri­ors are gor­geous, with addi­tion­al inspi­ra­tion com­ing from the likes of Frank Lloyd Wright and Joseph Eich­ler.

Barn­hard, who stud­ied archi­tec­ture briefly, repur­pos­es wal­nut, bam­boo, teak, and mahogany in his designs, which extend to dog beds, bread­box­es, and planters.

His bird­hous­es fea­ture liv­ing walls and green roofs plant­ed with suc­cu­lents.

Some have tiny long­boards propped on their decks, a reflec­tion of the time Barn­hard spent in Kauai.

Surfin’ Bird!

Is it wish­ful think­ing to believe it’s only a mat­ter of time ’til tiny wet­suits and emp­ty Fos­ters and Paci­fi­cos start fes­toon­ing the rails?

Browse Barnhard’s bird­hous­es here and fol­low him on Insta­gram to get a peek at cus­tom orders, many for cus­tomers resid­ing in the sorts of homes he recre­ates for the birds.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Har­vard Puts Online a Huge Col­lec­tion of Bauhaus Art Objects

An Oral His­to­ry of the Bauhaus: Hear Rare Inter­views (in Eng­lish) with Wal­ter Gropius, Lud­wig Mies van der Rohe & More

Down­load Orig­i­nal Bauhaus Books & Jour­nals for Free: Gropius, Klee, Kandin­sky, Moholy-Nagy & More

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Her solo show Nurse!, in which one of Shakespeare’s best loved female char­ac­ters hits the lec­ture cir­cuit to set the record straight pre­mieres in June at The Tank in New York City. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Download 50,000 Art Books & Catalogs from the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Digital Collections


If you’ve lived in or vis­it­ed New York City, you must know the laugh­able futil­i­ty of try­ing to “do the Met” in a day, or even a week­end. Not only is the muse­um enor­mous, but its per­ma­nent col­lec­tions demand to be stud­ied in detail, an activ­i­ty one can­not rush through with any sat­is­fac­tion. If you’re head­ed there for a spe­cial exhib­it, be espe­cial­ly disciplined—make a bee­line and do not stop to linger over elab­o­rate Edo-peri­od samu­rai armor or aus­tere Shak­er-made fur­ni­ture.

I thought I’d learned my les­son after many years of res­i­dence in the city. When I returned last sum­mer for a vis­it, fam­i­ly in tow, I vowed to head straight for the Rei Kawakubo exhib­it, list­ing all oth­er pri­or­i­ties beneath it. More fool me.

Imme­di­ate over­whelm over­took as we entered, on a week­end, in a crush of tourist noise. After hours spent admir­ing sar­copha­gi, neo­clas­si­cal paint­ings, etc., etc., we had to nix the exhib­it and push our way into Cen­tral Park for fresh air and recu­per­a­tive ice cream.

Does an exhi­bi­tion check­list, with pho­tographs and descrip­tions of every piece on dis­play, make up for miss­ing the Kawakubo in per­son? Not exact­ly, but at least I can linger over it, vir­tu­al­ly, in soli­tude and at my leisure. If you val­ue this expe­ri­ence, can­not make it to the Met, or want to see sev­er­al hun­dred past exhi­bi­tions from the com­fort of your home, you can do so eas­i­ly thanks to the wealth of cat­a­logs the Met has uploaded to its Dig­i­tal Col­lec­tions.

These cat­a­logs doc­u­ment spe­cial exhibits not only at the New York land­mark, but also at gal­leries around the world from the past 100 years or so. In a recent blog post, the Met points to one such scanned catalog—out of almost a hun­dred from the Hun­gar­i­an Gallery Nemzeti Sza­lon—from a 1957 exhi­bi­tion of sculp­tor Mik­lós Bor­sos. The text is in Hun­gar­i­an, but the art­work (fur­ther up), in detailed black and white pho­tographs, speaks a uni­ver­sal visu­al lan­guage.

These cat­a­logs join the thou­sands of books—50,000 titles in all—at the Met’s Dig­i­tal Col­lec­tions. There, you’ll find col­lec­tions such as Rare Books Pub­lished in Impe­r­i­al and Ear­ly Sovi­et Rus­sia, with unusu­al trea­sures like the book Church­es of Uglich, a sur­vey of one Russ­ian town’s church­es, with pho­tos, from the 1880s. “Inter­est­ed in Dada?” asks the Met, and who isn’t? The muse­um has just added a 1917 issue of jour­nal The Blind Man, edit­ed by Mar­cel Duchamp and con­tain­ing Alfred Stieglitz’s pho­to­graph of Duchamp’s found art prank Foun­tain.

If fashion’s your thing, the muse­um has added thou­sands of Bergdorf Good­man sketch­es from 1929 to 1952 (see a par­tic­u­lar­ly ele­gant exam­ple above from the 1930s). Maybe you’re into the his­to­ry of the Met itself? If so, check out this mas­sive col­lec­tion of his­tor­i­cal images of the muse­um, inside and out, dat­ing from its incep­tion in 1870 to the present. There’s even a selec­tion of pho­tos of its icon­ic spe­cial exhi­bi­tion ban­ners from 1970 through 2004 (like that below from 1982).

If you’re head­ed to the Met to see one of these spe­cial exhibits, take my advice and don’t get dis­tract­ed once you’re inside. But if you want to access a range of the museum’s cul­tur­al trea­sures from afar, you can’t do any bet­ter than brows­ing its Dig­i­tal Col­lec­tions, where you’re also like­ly to get lost for hours, maybe days.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art Makes 375,000 Images of Fine Art Avail­able Under a Cre­ative Com­mons License: Down­load, Use & Remix

Down­load 200+ Free Mod­ern Art Books from the Guggen­heim Muse­um

2,000+ Archi­tec­ture & Art Books You Can Read Free at the Inter­net Archive

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

The Mother of All Maps of the “Father of Waters”: Behold the 11-Foot Traveler’s Map of the Mississippi River (1866)

Image cour­tesy of the David Rum­sey Map Cen­ter

Every­body knows a fact or two about the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca, even those who’ve nev­er set foot there. At the very least, they know the US is a big coun­try, but it’s one thing to know that and anoth­er to tru­ly under­stand the scale involved. Today we offer you an arti­fact from car­to­graph­ic his­to­ry that illus­trates it vivid­ly: a 19th-cen­tu­ry trav­el­er’s map of the Mis­sis­sip­pi Riv­er that, in order to dis­play the length of that mighty 2,320-mile water­way, extends to a full eleven feet. (Or, for those espe­cial­ly unfa­mil­iar with how things are in Amer­i­ca, dis­plays the river’s full 3,734-kilometer length at a full 3.35 meters.)

With a width of only three inch­es (or 7.62 cen­time­ters), the Rib­bon Map of the Father of Waters came on a spool the read­er could use to unroll it to the rel­e­vant sec­tion of the riv­er any­where between the Gulf of Mex­i­co and north­ern Min­neso­ta. First pub­lished in 1866, just a year after the end of the Civ­il War, the map “was mar­ket­ed toward tourists, who were flock­ing to the Mis­sis­sip­pi to see the sights and ride the steam­boats.” So writes Atlas Obscu­ra’s Cara Giamo, who quotes art his­to­ri­an Nenette Luar­ca-Shoaf as describ­ing the riv­er as “a source of great awe. That kind of length, that kind of spa­cious­ness was incom­pre­hen­si­ble to a lot of folks who were com­ing from the East Coast.”

Luar­ca-Shoaf describes the map, an inven­tion of St. Louis entre­pre­neurs Myron Coloney and Sid­ney B. Fairchild, in more detail in an arti­cle of her own at Com­mon-Place. “The com­plete­ly unfurled map extends beyond the lim­its of the user’s reach, won­drous­ly embody­ing the scope of the riv­er in the time it took to unroll it and in the eleven feet of space it now occu­pies,” she writes. “At the same time, the care required to wind the strip back into Coloney and Fairchild’s patent­ed spool appa­ra­tus reit­er­ates the pre­car­i­ous­ness of human con­trol — either rep­re­sen­ta­tion­al or envi­ron­men­tal — over the mer­cu­r­ial Mis­sis­sip­pi.” We still today talk about “scrolling” maps, though we now mean it as noth­ing more than a dig­i­tal metaphor.

Unwieldy though it may seem, the Rib­bon Map of the Father of Waters must have struck its trav­el-mind­ed buy­ers in the 1860s — some 150 years before tech­nol­o­gy put touch­screens in all of our hands — as the height of car­to­graph­ic con­ve­nience. Despite hav­ing sold out their Mis­sis­sip­pi Riv­er map quick­ly enough to neces­si­tate a sec­ond edi­tion, though, Coloney and Fairchild did lit­tle more with their patent­ed con­cept. You can see a sur­viv­ing exam­ple of the Rib­bon Map in greater detail at the Library of Con­gress and the David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion. The cur­rent gen­er­a­tion of riv­er tourists yearn­ing for an under­stand­ing of the sur­pris­ing breadth of Amer­i­ca’s land and depth of its his­to­ry may even con­sti­tute suf­fi­cient mar­ket for a repli­ca. But what hap­pens when it gets wet?

via Atlas Obscu­ra and Slate

Relat­ed Con­tent:

All the Rivers & Streams in the U.S. Shown in Rain­bow Colours: A Data Visu­al­iza­tion to Behold

William Faulkn­er Draws Maps of Yok­na­p­ataw­pha Coun­ty, the Fic­tion­al Home of His Great Nov­els

Learn the Untold His­to­ry of the Chi­nese Com­mu­ni­ty in the Mis­sis­sip­pi Delta

Down­load 67,000 His­toric Maps (in High Res­o­lu­tion) from the Won­der­ful David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include 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 or on Face­book.

Watch the Winners of the 48 Hour Science Fiction Film Challenge: The 2018 Edition

Writes Metafil­ter: “Every year, as part of their sci­ence fic­tion film fes­ti­val, Sci-Fi Lon­don organ­ise a chal­lenge in which entrants are giv­en a title, line of dia­logue and descrip­tion of a prop, and then have 48 hours to turn in a com­plet­ed 5 minute film or piece of flash fic­tion. The win­ning films and flash fic­tion sto­ries from the Sci­Fi Lon­don 48 Hour Chal­lenge are now avail­able to watch and read.” The first place film win­ner you can view above. Find oth­er win­ning entries via the links below:

THE FILM CHALLENGE:

THE FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE:

Enjoy.

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:

Arthur C. Clarke Cre­ates a List of His 12 Favorite Sci­ence-Fic­tion Movies (1984)

The Art of Sci-Fi Book Cov­ers: From the Fan­tas­ti­cal 1920s to the Psy­che­del­ic 1960s & Beyond

Stream 47 Hours of Clas­sic Sci-Fi Nov­els & Sto­ries: Asi­mov, Wells, Orwell, Verne, Love­craft & More

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Watch the New Trailer for Worlds of Ursula K Le Guin, the First Feature Film on the Pioneering Sci-Fi Author

On June 10th, at the Sheffield Doc/Fest in Eng­land, direc­tor Arwen Cur­ry will pre­miere Worlds of Ursu­la K Le Guin, the first fea­ture film about the ground­break­ing sci­ence fic­tion writer. The film’s web­site notes that “Cur­ry filmed with Le Guin for 10 years to pro­duce the film, which unfolds an inti­mate jour­ney of self-dis­cov­ery as Le Guin comes into her own as a major fem­i­nist author, open­ing new doors for the imag­i­na­tion and inspir­ing gen­er­a­tions of women and oth­er mar­gin­al­ized writ­ers along the way.” Star­ring Le Guin her­self, who sad­ly passed away ear­li­er this year, Worlds of Ursu­la K Le Guin fea­tures appear­ances by Mar­garet Atwood, David Mitchell, Neil Gaiman, Samuel R. Delany, and Michael Chabon. You can watch the brand new trail­er for the film above.

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:

Hear Ursu­la K. Le Guin’s Space Rock Opera Rigel 9: A Rare Record­ing from 1985

Cel­e­brate the Life & Writ­ing of Ursu­la K. Le Guin (R.I.P.) with Clas­sic Radio Drama­ti­za­tions of Her Sto­ries

Ursu­la Le Guin Gives Insight­ful Writ­ing Advice in Her Free Online Work­shop

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

Henrietta Lacks Gets Immortalized in a Portrait: It’s Now on Display at the National Portrait Gallery

In my child­hood, I heard sto­ries about Hen­ri­et­ta Lacks’ mirac­u­lous cells. I heard these sto­ries because she hap­pened to have been my grandmother’s cousin. But this was just oral lore, I thought at first, leg­endary and implau­si­ble. Cells don’t just keep grow­ing indef­i­nite­ly. Noth­ing is immor­tal. That’s a safe assump­tion in most every oth­er case, but mil­lions of peo­ple now know what only a rel­a­tive­ly self-con­tained com­mu­ni­ty of researchers, doc­tors, biol­o­gy stu­dents, and, even­tu­al­ly, the Lacks fam­i­ly once did: Henrietta’s cer­vi­cal can­cer cells con­tin­ued to grow and mul­ti­ply after her death in 1951. They may, indeed, do so for­ev­er.

The once anony­mous cell line, called HeLa, has pro­vid­ed researchers world­wide with invalu­able med­ical data. Hen­ri­et­ta her­self went unrec­og­nized and unre­mem­bered until fair­ly recent­ly. That all changed after Rebec­ca Skloot’s book The Immor­tal Life of Hen­ri­et­ta Lacks, based on an ear­li­er series of arti­cles, appeared in 2010 to great acclaim. Since the pub­li­ca­tion of Skloot’s best­seller, the sto­ry of Hen­ri­et­ta and the Lacks fam­i­ly has fur­ther achieved renown in a 2017 film ver­sion star­ring Oprah Win­frey.

Suf­fice it say, see­ing Hen­ri­et­ta arrive on the pop cul­tur­al stage has been a strange expe­ri­ence. (One made even weird­er by oth­er media moments, like indie band Yeasay­er and for­mer Dead Kennedys singer Jel­lo Biafra releas­ing songs about her and her cells.) The injus­tices of Henrietta’s sto­ry are now well-known. She was poor and received sub­stan­dard med­ical treat­ment. Her cells were har­vest­ed with­out her knowl­edge, and after her death, no one noti­fied the fam­i­ly about the world­wide use of her cells for bio­med­ical research. That is, until doc­tors did research on her chil­dren in the 70s, pub­lish­ing fam­i­ly med­ical records with­out con­sent and gath­er­ing more data because the HeLa cells had con­t­a­m­i­nat­ed oth­er cell lines.

She has “become one of the most pow­er­ful sym­bols for informed con­sent in the his­to­ry of sci­ence,” Nela Ula­by writes at NPR. She is also a sym­bol, says Bill Pret­zer, senior cura­tor at the Nation­al Muse­um of African Amer­i­can His­to­ry and Cul­ture (NMAAHC), “that his­to­ry can be remade, re-remem­bered.” To that end, Hen­ri­et­ta has been immor­tal­ized as a whole human being, not just the source of extra­or­di­nar­i­ly immor­tal cells. Her por­trait, by African-Amer­i­can artist Kadir Nel­son, now hangs in the Nation­al Por­trait Gallery, a rep­re­sen­ta­tion of both the his­tor­i­cal fig­ure and her world-his­tor­i­cal bio­log­i­cal lega­cy.

Draw­ing on the pho­to­graph that adorns the cov­er of Skloot’s book, the por­trait shows her “just like they said she was in life,” says her grand­daugh­ter Jeri Lacks-Whye, “hap­py, out­go­ing, giv­ing,” and styl­ish­ly dressed. The two miss­ing but­tons on her dress rep­re­sent the cells tak­en from her body, and the pat­tern behind her, which “almost looks like wall­pa­per,” says Nation­al Por­trait Gallery cura­tor Dorothy Moss, is “actu­al­ly rep­re­sen­ta­tive of her cells.” Oth­er trib­utes, notes Ula­by, include a “high school for stu­dents inter­est­ed in med­i­cine” and “a minor plan­et whirling in the aster­oid belt between Mars and Jupiter.” The cells have also gen­er­at­ed bil­lions of dol­lars in prof­it.

In life, she could nev­er have imag­ined this strange kind of fame and for­tune. The HeLa cells were instru­men­tal in the devel­op­ment of the polio vac­cine and research in cloning, gene map­ping, and in vit­ro fer­til­iza­tion. They have trav­eled into space and around the world hun­dreds of times. The sto­ry of the per­son they came from, says Skloot in a 2010 inter­view, reminds us that “there are human beings behind every bio­log­i­cal sam­ple used in the lab­o­ra­to­ry… but they’re usu­al­ly left out of the equa­tion.” Mak­ing those lives an essen­tial part of the con­ver­sa­tion in med­ical research can help keep that research eth­i­cal­ly hon­est, equi­table, and, one hopes, based in serv­ing human needs over cor­po­rate greed.

The por­trait will remain at the Nation­al Por­trait Gallery until Novem­ber 4th, after which it will return to the NMAAHC.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Online Biol­o­gy Cours­es 

Down­load 100,000+ Images From The His­to­ry of Med­i­cine, All Free Cour­tesy of The Well­come Library

African-Amer­i­can His­to­ry: Mod­ern Free­dom Strug­gle (A Free Course from Stan­ford) 

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

A Pakistani Orchestra & Wynton Marsalis Play an Enchanting Version of John Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things”

Every­one knows “My Favorite Things.” Most know it because of the 1965 movie ver­sion of the Broad­way musi­cal for which Richard Rodgers orig­i­nal­ly com­posed the song. But many jazz enthu­si­asts cred­it the one true “My Favorite Things” to a dif­fer­ent musi­cal genius entire­ly: John Coltrane. The free jazz-pio­neer­ing sax­o­phon­ist’s ver­sion of Rodgers’ show tune (a filmed per­for­mance of which we fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture a few years ago) first came out as the title track of an album he put out in 1961, two years after The Sound of Music’s orig­i­nal Broad­way debut. Clock­ing in at near­ly four­teen min­utes, it gave lis­ten­ers a tour de force demon­stra­tion of dra­mat­ic musi­cal trans­for­ma­tion.

“In 1960, Coltrane left Miles [Davis] and formed his own quar­tet to fur­ther explore modal play­ing, freer direc­tions, and a grow­ing Indi­an influ­ence,” says the doc­u­men­tary The World Accord­ing to John Coltrane. “They trans­formed ‘My Favorite Things,’ the cheer­ful pop­ulist song from ‘The Sound of Music,’ into a hyp­not­ic east­ern dervish dance. The record­ing was a hit and became Coltrane’s most request­ed tune—and a bridge to broad pub­lic accep­tance.”

If Coltrane’s inter­pre­ta­tion of the song brought it toward the East, what would an East­ern inter­pre­ta­tion of his inter­pre­ta­tion sound like? Now, thanks to Pak­istan’s Sachal Jazz Ensem­ble, you can hear, and see, Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things” itself trans­formed dra­mat­i­cal­ly again.

You may remem­ber the Sachal Jazz Ensem­ble from when we fea­tured their per­for­mance of Dave Brubeck­’s “Take Five.” In the video up top, led by no less an Amer­i­can jazz lumi­nary than Win­ton Marsalis, they and their tra­di­tion­al instru­ments (bansuri, tabla, sitar, dho­lak, and more), played with a mod­ern sen­si­bil­i­ty, give a sim­i­lar treat­ment to “My Favorite Things.” Their inter­pre­ta­tion, though it runs only a com­par­a­tive­ly brisk eight min­utes or so, will sound quite unlike any jazz stan­dard you’ve ever heard — or any show tune or piece of tra­di­tion­al Pak­istani music, for that mat­ter. It also hints at the vast musi­cal pos­si­bil­i­ties still untapped by the hybridiza­tion of musi­cal tra­di­tions, even when used to play a song many of us thought we’d been sick of for the past fifty years.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Pak­istani Musi­cians Play a Delight­ful Ver­sion of Dave Brubeck’s Jazz Clas­sic, “Take Five”

Watch John Coltrane and His Great Quin­tet Play ‘My Favorite Things’ (1961)

Mis­ter Rogers Turns Kids On to Jazz with Help of a Young Wyn­ton Marsalis and Oth­er Jazz Leg­ends (1986)

Wyn­ton Marsalis Gives 12 Tips on How to Prac­tice: For Musi­cians, Ath­letes, or Any­one Who Wants to Learn Some­thing New

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include 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 or on Face­book.

Watch an Animated Visualization of the Bass Line for the Motown Classic, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough”

Jamer­son is the Schoen­berg of get­ting from the I chord to the IV chord. He’s algo­rith­mi­cal­ly gen­er­at­ing a new pat­tern every phrase…[He] belongs with Bach, Debussy and Mozart.

- Jack Strat­ton

Side­man James Jamer­son, Paul McCartney’s musi­cal hero and a co-author of the Motown sound, is a great illus­tra­tion of the bass’ impor­tance in pop and R&B his­to­ry.

He kept a funky beat for such artists as Ste­vie Won­der, Martha and the Van­del­las, Mar­vin Gaye, and the Supremes. His low notes helped the har­monies sing.

Jack Strat­ton, leader of the mod­ern Amer­i­can funk band, Vulf­peck, named Jamer­son to his Holy Trin­i­ty of Bass, along with Chic’s Bernard Edwards and Sly and the Fam­i­ly Stone’s Lar­ry Gra­ham.

(Joe Dart, Vulfpeck’s bassist, is a pret­ty hot tick­et too.)

Strat­ton’s rev­er­ence extend­ed to a side project in which he visu­al­ly plots some of Jamerson’s savoriest base­lines.

Check out the crag­gy peaks and val­leys on Mar­vin Gaye & Tam­mi Ter­rel­l’s famous ren­di­tion of Ash­ford & Simpson’s “Ain’t No Moun­tain High Enough,” above.

No won­der it’s the most lis­tened to iso­lat­ed bass track on No Tre­ble, the online mag­a­zine for bass play­ers.

All togeth­er now:

Stratton’s visu­al­iza­tions of the Jame­son lines for Ste­vie Wonder’s “I Was Made to Love Her” and “For Once In My Life” are pret­ty mes­mer­iz­ing too.

Learn more about Jamerson’s high­ly influ­en­tial bass tech­nique in Dr. Lick’s Stand­ing in the Shad­ows of Motown: The Life and Music of Leg­endary Bassist James Jamer­son.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What Made John Entwistle One of the Great Rock Bassists? Hear Iso­lat­ed Tracks from “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” “Baba O’Riley” & “Pin­ball Wiz­ard”

What Makes Flea Such an Amaz­ing Bass Play­er? A Video Essay Breaks Down His Style

The Sto­ry of the Bass: New Video Gives Us 500 Years of Music His­to­ry in 8 Min­utes

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Her solo show Nurse!, in which one of Shakespeare’s best loved female char­ac­ters hits the lec­ture cir­cuit to set the record straight pre­mieres in June at The Tank in New York City. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

The 50 Best Ambient Albums of All Time: A Playlist Curated by Pitchfork

What makes a good ambi­ent record? I’m not sure I can even begin to answer that ques­tion, and I count myself a long­time fan of the genre, such as it is. Though con­ceived, osten­si­bly, by Bri­an Eno as mod­ernist mood music—“as ignor­able as it is inter­est­ing,” he wrote in the lin­er notes to 1978’s Ambi­ent 1: Music for Air­ports—the term has come to encom­pass “tracks you can dance to all the way to harsh noise.” This descrip­tion from com­pos­er and musi­cian Kei­th Fuller­ton Whit­man at Pitch­fork may not get us any clos­er to a clear def­i­n­i­tion in prose, though “cloud of sound” is a love­ly turn of phrase.

Unlike oth­er forms of music, there is no set of standards—both in the jazz sense of a canon and the for­mal sense of a set of rules. Rever­ber­at­ing key­boards, squelch­ing, burp­ing syn­the­siz­ers, dron­ing gui­tar feed­back, field record­ings, found sounds, lap­tops, strings… what­ev­er it takes to get you there—“there” being a state of sus­pend­ed emo­tion, “drift­ing” rather than “dri­ving,” the sounds “sooth­ing, sad, haunt­ing, or omi­nous.” (Cheer­ful, upbeat ambi­ent music may be a con­tra­dic­tion in terms.)

Giv­en the loose­ness of these cri­te­ria, it only stands to rea­son that “good” ambi­ent must be judged on far more sub­jec­tive terms than most any oth­er kind of music. Next to “atmos­pher­ic,” a pri­ma­ry oper­a­tive word in an ambi­ent crit­i­cal lex­i­con is “evoca­tive,” and what the music evokes will dif­fer vast­ly from lis­ten­er to lis­ten­er. “No one agrees on the lan­guage sur­round­ing this music,” Whit­man admits, “not the musi­cians who make it, not the audi­ence.”

Ambient’s close asso­ci­a­tion with trends in avant-garde min­i­mal­ism, from Erik Satie to Steve Reich, La Monte Young, and Charle­magne Pales­tine, may pre­pare us for its many crossover strains in elec­tron­ic music, but not, per­haps, for the seem­ing syn­er­gy between ambi­ent and cer­tain devel­op­ments in heavy met­al (though Lou Reed seems to have pre­saged this evo­lu­tion). “There are many roads one can take into this par­tic­u­lar sec­tor,” writes Whit­man, “vir­tu­al­ly every extant sub- and micro-genre has an ambi­ent shad­ow.”

Such ecu­meni­cal­ism is a fea­ture: it means that a list like Pitchfork’s “50 Best Ambi­ent Albums of All Time” (stream most of those albums on the Spo­ti­fy playlist above) can pull from an impres­sive­ly wide array of musi­cal domains, from the ear­ly exper­i­men­tal elec­tron­ic music of Lau­rie Spiegel to the spir­i­tu­al jazz of Alice Coltrane; the chill-out elec­tron­i­ca of The Orb and The KLF to the ethe­re­al indie post-folk dream­pop of Grouper, a very rare entry with vocals.

If the genre has stars, Tim Heck­er and William Basin­s­ki might be con­sid­ered two of them; if it has august fore­bears, Pauline Oliv­eros, Ter­ry Riley, and of course Eno are three. (Music for Air­ports comes in at num­ber one, though anoth­er very well-cho­sen inclu­sion here is Eno and Harold Budd’s utter­ly gor­geous The Pearl.) Oth­er entries I’m very pleased to see on this list include albums by Gas, com­pos­er Max Richter, and vocal exper­i­men­tal­ist Juliana Bar­wick, artists who might nev­er share a stage, but sit quite com­fort­ably next to each oth­er here.

What’s miss­ing? Maybe the glacial­ly slow, gui­tar and bass drones of Sunn O))) or the deeply unnerv­ing noise of Pruri­ent or the lush elec­tro-acoustic com­po­si­tions of Ash­ley Bel­louin, I don’t know. These aren’t com­plaints but sug­ges­tions on the order of if you like Pitchfork’s “50 Best Ambi­ent Albums of All Time,” check out…. I could go on, but I’d rather leave it to you, read­er. What’s on your list that didn’t make the cut?

Vis­it Pitch­fork’s list here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The “True” Sto­ry Of How Bri­an Eno Invent­ed Ambi­ent Music

10 Hours of Ambi­ent Arc­tic Sounds Will Help You Relax, Med­i­tate, Study & Sleep

Hear “Weight­less,” the Most Relax­ing Song Ever Made, Accord­ing to Researchers (You’ll Need It Today)

Moby Lets You Down­load 4 Hours of Ambi­ent Music to Help You Sleep, Med­i­tate, Do Yoga & Not Pan­ic

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

When Pinball Was Deemed Immoral & Outlawed in Major American Cities

I remem­ber the ear­ly days of the video arcade, where my friends and I went to have fun and spent our par­ents’ cash on Gala­ga, Robot­ron 2084, or–if you were a real­ly big spender–Dragon’s Lair. Then, when we’d get home, and we would see scare pieces on the nation­al news about the evils of the very arcades we had just vis­it­ed, dens of drugs and deprav­i­ty! Where were *those* arcades, we won­dered.

Noth­ing has changed, it seems. Let’s go back near­ly 80 years to anoth­er moral pan­ic: pin­ball.
As these two mini docs show, in the 1930s and ‘40s pin­ball was banned in cities like New York (by may­or and future air­port Fiorel­lo LaGuardia) and Chica­go because of its asso­ci­a­tion with orga­nized crime, but also the appeal it had to the chil­dren of the work­ing class.

They kind of had a point: ear­ly pin­ball machine were pure­ly games of chance, which put it very close to gam­bling. (A mod­ern pachinko machine is clos­er to these ear­ly ver­sions.) Like a carny game, you paid your mon­ey, and you watched as the ball careened down the table, out of your con­trol.

But with the inven­tion of user-con­trolled flip­pers that sent the ball back in play, these games of chance became games of skill. But that didn’t stop some moral cru­saders.

And, as sev­er­al pin­ball fans have found out–like the gen­tle­man in the VICE doc below who want­ed to open a pin­ball museum–antiquated laws remained on the books from those ear­ly years and had nev­er been changed for mod­ern times.

Roger Sharpe, known as “The Man Who Saved Pin­ball,” even went to a Chica­go court in 1976 to prove that pin­ball was a game of skill. In a scene that sounds per­fect for a final act in a movie, Sharpe, with his bar­ber­shop quar­tet mus­tache and groovy out­fit, played pin­ball in front of leg­is­la­tors. Call­ing shots like a pool play­er might, he soon con­vinced the court that skill was every­thing. Sharpe would go on to become a star wit­ness in sim­i­lar hear­ings in Ohio, West Vir­ginia, and Texas over their pin­ball laws.

Iron­i­cal­ly, while video games replaced pin­ball in most arcades, home sys­tems and com­put­ers replaced the need for arcades. It’s now a per­fect time for these pure­ly ana­log and tac­tile machines to make a come­back. Hell, a rock band might even make a musi­cal about it one day.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Orson Welles Teach­es Bac­carat, Craps, Black­jack, Roulette, and Keno at Cae­sars Palace (1978)

Sad 7‑Foot Tall Clown Sings “Pin­ball Wiz­ard” in the Style of John­ny Cash, and Oth­er Hits by Roy Orbi­son, Cheap Trick & More

Play a Col­lec­tion of Clas­sic Hand­held Video Games at the Inter­net Archive: Pac-Man, Don­key Kong, Tron and MC Ham­mer

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the artist inter­view-based FunkZone Pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.


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