How the Russian Theatre Director Constantin Stanislavski Revolutionized the Craft of Acting: A New Video Essay

From Travis Lee Rat­cliff comes a video essay that explores the influ­ence of Con­stan­tin Stanislavs­ki, the Russ­ian the­atre direc­tor whose “sys­tem” of actor train­ing shaped a gen­er­a­tion of icon­ic Amer­i­can actors. Here’s how Rat­cliff sets the stage for his video essay.

In the 1950s, a wave of “method actors” took Hol­ly­wood by storm.

Actors like James Dean, Mar­lon Bran­do, and Mont­gomery Clift, brought a whole new toolset and per­spec­tive on the actor’s craft to the films they per­formed in.

The foun­da­tion of their work, how­ev­er, was laid in Rus­sia more than fifty years pri­or to their star­dom.

Stanislavski’s con­cep­tion of “psy­cho­log­i­cal real­ism” in per­for­mance chal­lenged ideas about the essen­tial fea­tures of the actor’s craft that had been held for cen­turies.

In the­atre before Stanislavs­ki, act­ing was defined as a craft of vocal and ges­tur­al train­ing. The role the actor played was to give life to the emo­tions of the text in a broad illus­tra­tive fash­ion. For­mal cat­e­gories such as melo­dra­ma, opera, vaude­ville, and musi­cals, all played to this notion of the actor as chief rep­re­sen­ter of dra­mat­ic ideas.

Stanislavski’s key insight was in see­ing the actor as an expe­ri­encer of authen­tic emo­tion­al moments.

Sud­den­ly the craft of per­for­mance could be about seek­ing out a gen­uine inter­nal expe­ri­ence of the narrative’s emo­tion­al jour­ney.

From this foun­da­tion, real­ism in per­for­mance began to flour­ish. This not only changed our fun­da­men­tal idea of the actor but invit­ed a rein­ven­tion of the whole endeav­or of telling sto­ries through dra­ma.

Teach­ers would adopt Stanisvlaski’s meth­ods and ideas and elab­o­rate upon them in Amer­i­can the­atre schools. The result, in the 1950s, would be a new wave of actors and a style of act­ing that empha­sized psy­cho­log­i­cal real­ism to a greater degree than their peers in motion pic­tures.

This idea of real­ism grew to dom­i­nate our notion of suc­cess­ful per­for­mances in cin­e­ma. Stanislavskian-real­ism is now cen­tral to the DNA of how we direct and read per­for­mances, whether we are con­scious of it or not.

I think it is impor­tant to know this his­to­ry and con­sid­er its rev­o­lu­tion­ary char­ac­ter. Under­stand­ing the nature of Stanislavski’s insights allows us to look at oth­er unasked ques­tions, oth­er foun­da­tion­al ele­ments of our craft that we might take for grant­ed.

Beyond this, Ratliff also pro­vides a list of Stanislavski’s books, which still pro­vide “fas­ci­nat­ing explo­rations of the craft of per­for­mance.” Check them out:

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Visu­al Intro­duc­tion to Sovi­et Mon­tage The­o­ry: A Rev­o­lu­tion in Film­mak­ing

Mar­lon Bran­do Screen Tests for Rebel With­out A Cause (1947)

The James Dean Sto­ry: The Ear­ly Doc­u­men­tary by Robert Alt­man

The First Photographs of Snowflakes: Discover the Groundbreaking Microphotography of Wilson “Snowflake” Bentley (1885)

What kind of a blight­ed soci­ety turns the word “snowflake” into an insult?, I some­times catch myself think­ing, but then again, I’ve nev­er under­stood why “tree­hug­ger” should offend. All irony aside, being known as a per­son who loves nature or resem­bles one of its most ele­gant cre­ations should be a mark of dis­tinc­tion, no? At least that’s what Wil­son “Snowflake” Bent­ley sure­ly thought.

The Ver­mont farmer, self-edu­cat­ed nat­u­ral­ist, and avid pho­tog­ra­ph­er, was the first per­son to offer the fol­low­ing wis­dom on the record, then illus­trate it with hun­dreds upon hun­dreds of pic­tures of snowflakes, 5,000 in all:

I found that snowflakes were mir­a­cles of beau­ty; and it seemed a shame that this beau­ty should not be seen and appre­ci­at­ed by oth­ers. Every crys­tal was a mas­ter­piece of design and no one design was ever repeat­ed. When a snowflake melt­ed, that design was for­ev­er lost. Just that much beau­ty was gone, with­out leav­ing any record behind.

Bent­ley left a con­sid­er­able record—though still an insignif­i­cant sam­ple size giv­en the scope of the object of study. But his pho­tographs give the impres­sion of an infi­nite vari­ety of dif­fer­ent types, each with the same basic crys­talline lat­tice­work struc­ture. He took his first pho­to­graph of a snowflake, the first ever tak­en, in 1885, by adapt­ing a micro­scope to a bel­lows cam­era, after years of mak­ing sketch­es and much tri­al and error.

Some great por­tion of this work must have been tedious and frustrating—Bentley had to hold his breath for each expo­sure lest he destroy the pho­to­graph­ic sub­ject. But it was worth the effort. Bent­ley, the Smith­son­ian informs us, “was a pio­neer in ‘pho­tomi­crog­ra­phy,’ the pho­tograph­ing of very small objects.” Five hun­dred of his pho­tographs now reside at the Smith­son­ian Insti­tu­tion Archives, “offered by Bent­ley in 1903 to pro­tect against ‘all pos­si­bil­i­ty of loss and destruc­tion, through fire or acci­dent.” You can see a huge dig­i­tal gallery of those hun­dreds of pho­tos here.

Along with U.S. Weath­er Bureau physi­cist William J. Humphreys, he pub­lished 2300 of his snowflake pho­tographs in a mono­graph titled Snow Crys­tals. Bent­ley also pub­lished over 60 arti­cles on the sub­ject (read two of them here). Despite his con­tri­bu­tions, he receives no men­tion in most his­to­ries of pho­tomi­crog­ra­phy. This may be due to his provin­cial loca­tion (he nev­er left Jeri­cho, VT) or his lack of sci­en­tif­ic train­ing and cre­den­tials, or a lack of inter­est in pho­tos of snowflakes on the part of most pho­tomi­crog­ra­phy his­to­ri­ans.

Or it may be because Bent­ley was thought to be a fraud. When a Ger­man mete­o­rol­o­gist com­mis­sioned some images of his own and got some very dif­fer­ent results, he accused the farmer of retouch­ing. Bent­ley read­i­ly admit­ted it, say­ing, “a true sci­en­tist wish­es above all to have his pho­tographs as true to nature as pos­si­ble, and if retouch­ing will help in this respect, then it is ful­ly jus­ti­fied.”

The defense is a good one. Although the “nature” Bentley’s pho­tos show us may be a the­o­ret­i­cal ide­al­iza­tion, so too are the hand-ren­dered illus­tra­tions of most sci­en­tists through­out his­to­ry (and near­ly every med­ical dia­gram today). Take, for exam­ple, the psy­che­del­ic, bright­ly col­ored pat­terns of accom­plished biol­o­gist Ernst Haeck­el, who turned the micro- and macro­scop­ic world into sur­re­al­ly sym­met­ri­cal art in his draw­ings. Though he might not have said so direct­ly, Bent­ley was doing some­thing sim­i­lar with a cam­era. Just lis­ten to him describe his process in a 1900 issue of Harper’s:

Quick, the first flakes are com­ing; the couri­ers of the com­ing snow storm. Open the sky­light, and direct­ly under it place the care­ful­ly pre­pared black­board, on whose ebony sur­face the most minute form of frozen beau­ty may be wel­come from cloud-land. The mys­ter­ies of the upper air are about to reveal them­selves, if our hands are deft and our eyes quick enough.

In the “qui­et fren­zy of his winter’s quest,” writes Alli­son Meier at Hyper­al­ler­gic, he pro­duced images of “beau­ti­ful ghosts from a win­ter that bris­tled the air over a cen­tu­ry ago.” Learn more about Bentley’s life, work, and the Smith­son­ian col­lec­tion in the short doc­u­men­tary fur­ther up, the Wash­ing­ton Post video above, and the Radi­o­lab episode below, in which a breath­less Latif Nass­er takes us into the heart of Bentley’s ori­gin sto­ry, and “snowflake expert and pho­tog­ra­ph­er Ken Lib­brecht helps set the record straight.”

Real snowflakes have many imper­fec­tions, and per­haps Bent­ley did snow a dis­ser­vice to so stren­u­ous­ly sug­gest oth­er­wise. But the record he left us, Meier notes, “is appre­ci­at­ed as much as an artis­tic archive as a mete­o­ro­log­i­cal one.” He might have been a sci­en­tist when it came to tech­nique, but Bent­ley was a roman­tic when it came to snow. His sto­ry is as fas­ci­nat­ing as his pho­tographs. Maybe a delight­ful alter­na­tive to the usu­al Christ­mas fare. There’s even a chil­dren’s book called… what else?…  Snowflake Bent­ley.

via Smith­son­ian/Hyper­al­ler­gic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Behold the Very First Col­or Pho­to­graph (1861): Tak­en by Scot­tish Physi­cist (and Poet!) James Clerk Maxwell

See the First Pho­to­graph of a Human Being: A Pho­to Tak­en by Louis Daguerre (1838)

The First Known Pho­to­graph of Peo­ple Shar­ing a Beer (1843)

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

“Inemuri,” the Japanese Art of Taking Power Naps at Work, on the Subway, and Other Public Places

If you’ve vis­it­ed any big city in Japan, you’ve no doubt seen a fair few com­muters sleep­ing on the sub­way. The more time you spend there, the more places in which you’ll see nor­mal, every­day-look­ing folks fast asleep: parks, cof­fee shops, book­stores, even the work­place dur­ing office hours. Peo­ple in Korea, where I live, have also been known to fall asleep in places not nor­mal­ly asso­ci­at­ed with sleep­ing, but the Japan­ese take it to such a lev­el that they’ve actu­al­ly got a word for it: inemuri (居眠り, a mash-up of the verb for being present and the one for sleep­ing.

“I first encoun­tered these intrigu­ing atti­tudes to sleep dur­ing my first stay in Japan in the late 1980s,” writes Uni­ver­si­ty of Cam­bridge lec­tur­er Brigitte Ste­ger. “At that time Japan was at the peak of what became known as the Bub­ble Econ­o­my, a phase of extra­or­di­nary spec­u­la­tive boom. Dai­ly life was cor­re­spond­ing­ly hec­tic. Peo­ple filled their sched­ules with work and leisure appoint­ments, and had hard­ly any time to sleep.” Amid it all, she heard many a boast­ful com­plaint that “We Japan­ese are crazy to work so much!” Yet “at the same time, I observed count­less peo­ple doz­ing on under­ground trains dur­ing my dai­ly com­mute. Some even slept while stand­ing up, and no one appeared to be at all sur­prised by this.”

Ste­ger, who research­es the social and cul­tur­al aspects of sleep in Japan, has found a rich sub­ject in inemuri, which on a cer­tain lev­el “is not con­sid­ered sleep at all,” and in fact works more like “a sub­or­di­nate involve­ment which can be indulged in as long as it does not dis­turb the social sit­u­a­tion at hand – sim­i­lar to day­dream­ing. Even though the sleep­er might be men­tal­ly ‘away’, they have to be able to return to the social sit­u­a­tion at hand when active con­tri­bu­tion is required. They also have to main­tain the impres­sion of fit­ting in with the dom­i­nant involve­ment by means of body pos­ture, body lan­guage, dress code and the like.”

Inemuri, a phe­nom­e­non whose doc­u­men­ta­tion goes back a mil­len­ni­um, also offers an uncon­ven­tion­al­ly angled win­dow onto sev­er­al aspects of Japan­ese cul­ture, such as the belief that “co-sleep­ing with chil­dren until they are at least at school age will reas­sure them and help them devel­op into inde­pen­dent and social­ly sta­ble adults.” That sure­ly gets peo­ple more com­fort­able, in every sense, with the idea of falling asleep in a pub­lic or qua­si-pub­lic space, as does Japan’s famous­ly high lev­el of pub­lic safe­ty. (Nobody who has some­where else to sleep does so on, say, the New York sub­way.)

In recent years, as you can see in the TRT World report above, Japan­ese com­pa­nies have actu­al­ly made pro­vi­sions for prop­er work­day nap­ping on the the­o­ry that a bet­ter-rest­ed work­er is the more pro­duc­tive work­er. (And they could­n’t be much worse-rest­ed there: “accord­ing to the US Nation­al Sleep Foun­da­tion’s poll of sleep­ing habits around the world,” reports the Guardian, “Japan­ese work­ers sleep, on aver­age, for just six hours 22 min­utes on work nights – less than those in any oth­er coun­try.”) That sounds for­ward-think­ing enough, and the most intense days of the Bub­ble Econ­o­my have indeed long gone, but do bear in mind that in Japan, one still does occa­sion­al­ly hear the word karōshi (過労死) — death by over­work.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Pow­er of Pow­er Naps: Sal­vador Dali Teach­es You How Micro-Naps Can Give You Cre­ative Inspi­ra­tion

How a Good Night’s Sleep — and a Bad Night’s Sleep — Can Enhance Your Cre­ativ­i­ty

Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Dymax­ion Sleep Plan: He Slept Two Hours a Day for Two Years & Felt “Vig­or­ous” and “Alert”

Dr. Weil’s 60-Sec­ond Tech­nique for Falling Asleep

“Tsun­doku,” the Japan­ese Word for the New Books That Pile Up on Our Shelves, Should Enter the Eng­lish Lan­guage

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.

3,500 Occult Manuscripts Will Be Digitized & Made Freely Available Online, Thanks to Da Vinci Code Author Dan Brown

If there’s one thing The Da Vin­ci Code’s Dan Brown and “The Library of Babel”’s Jorge Luis Borges have in com­mon it is a love for obscure reli­gious and occult books and arti­facts. But why do I com­pare Borges—one of the most high­ly-regard­ed, but dif­fi­cult, of Latin Amer­i­can poets and writers—to a famous Amer­i­can writer of enter­tain­ing paper­back thrillers? One rea­son only: despite the vast dif­fer­ences in their styles and reg­is­ters, Borges would be deeply moved by Brown’s recent act of phil­an­thropy, a dona­tion of €300,000 to Amsterdam’s Rit­man Library, also known as the Bib­lio­the­ca Philo­soph­i­ca Her­met­i­ca House of Liv­ing Books.

The gen­er­ous gift will enable the Rit­man to dig­i­tize thou­sands of “pre-1900 texts on alche­my, astrol­o­gy, mag­ic, and theos­o­phy,” reports Thu-Huong Ha at Quartz, includ­ing the Cor­pus Her­meticum (1472), “the source work on Her­met­ic wis­dom”; Gior­dano Bruno’s Spac­cio de la bes­tia tri­on­fante (1584); and “the first print­ed ver­sion of the tree of life (1516): A graph­ic rep­re­sen­ta­tion of the sefirot, the 10 virtues of God accord­ing to the Kab­bal­ah.”

Brown, the Rit­man notes, “is a great admir­er of the library and vis­it­ed on sev­er­al occa­sions while writ­ing his nov­els The Lost Sym­bol and Infer­no.” Now he’s giv­ing back. Some of the rev­enue gen­er­at­ed by his best­selling nov­els, along with a €15,000 con­tri­bu­tion from the Dutch Prins Bern­hard Cul­tu­ur­fonds, will allow the library’s core col­lec­tion, “some 3,500 ancient books,” to come online soon in an archive called “Her­met­i­cal­ly Open.”

For now, the curi­ous can down­load the 44-page guide to the col­lec­tion as a free ebook, and watch the ani­mat­ed video at the top, a breezy explain­er of how the books will be trans­port­ed, dig­i­tized, and uploaded. Just above, see a trail­er for a doc­u­men­tary about the Rit­man, found­ed by busi­ness­man Joost R. Rit­man in 1984. The library holds over 20,000 vol­umes on mys­ti­cism, spir­i­tu­al­i­ty, reli­gion, alche­my, Gnos­ti­cism, and more.

Many a writer, like Brown, has found inspi­ra­tion among the Rit­man’s more acces­si­ble works (though, sad­ly, Borges, who was blind in 1984 and died two years lat­er, could not have appre­ci­at­ed it). Now, thanks to the Da Vin­ci Code author’s mag­na­nim­i­ty, a new gen­er­a­tion of schol­ars will be able to vir­tu­al­ly access, for exam­ple, the first Eng­lish trans­la­tion of the works of 17-cen­tu­ry Ger­man mys­tic Jakob Böhme, which librar­i­an and direc­tor Esther Rit­man describes as “trav­el­ling in an entire new world.”

In an intro­duc­to­ry essay, the Rit­man notes that aca­d­e­m­ic inter­est in occult and her­met­ic writ­ing has increased late­ly among schol­ars like W.J. Hane­graaff, who tells “the ‘neglect­ed’ sto­ry of how the intel­lec­tu­al com­mu­ni­ty since the Renais­sance has tried to come to terms with ‘eso­teric’ and ‘occult’ cur­rents present in West­ern cul­ture.” That those cur­rents are as much a part of the cul­ture as the sci­en­tif­ic or indus­tri­al rev­o­lu­tions need not be in doubt. The Her­met­i­cal­ly Open project opens up that his­to­ry with “an invi­ta­tion to any­one wish­ing to con­sult or study sources belong­ing to the field of Chris­t­ian-Her­met­ic Gno­sis for per­son­al, aca­d­e­m­ic or oth­er pur­pos­es.” Look for the dig­i­ti­za­tion project to hit the web in the com­ing months.

Note: You can now see the first texts online. See our fol­low up post here:

1,600 Occult Books Now Dig­i­tized & Put Online, Thanks to the Rit­man Library and Da Vin­ci Code Author Dan Brown

Relat­ed Con­tent:

1,000-Year-Old Illus­trat­ed Guide to the Med­i­c­i­nal Use of Plants Now Dig­i­tized & Put Online

The British Library Puts 1,000,000 Images into the Pub­lic Domain, Mak­ing Them Free to Reuse & Remix

Aleis­ter Crow­ley Reads Occult Poet­ry in the Only Known Record­ings of His Voice (1920)

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

The 1883 Krakatoa Explosion Made the Loudest Sound in History–So Loud It Traveled Around the World Four Times

Think of our­selves though we may as liv­ing in a noisy era, none of us — not even mem­bers of sta­di­um-fill­ing rock bands known specif­i­cal­ly for their high-deci­bel inten­si­ty — have expe­ri­enced any­thing like the loud­est sound in his­to­ry. That sin­gu­lar son­ic event came as a con­se­quence of the explo­sion of Kraka­toa, one of the names (along with Vesu­vius) that has become a byword for vol­canic dis­as­ter. And with good cause: when it blew in mod­ern-day Indone­sia on Sun­day, 26 August 1883, it caused not only 36,000 deaths at the very least and untold destruc­tion of oth­er kinds, but let out a sound heard 3,000 miles away.

“Think, for a moment, just how crazy this is,” writes Nau­tilus’ Aatish Bha­tia. “If you’re in Boston and some­one tells you that they heard a sound com­ing from New York City, you’re prob­a­bly going to give them a fun­ny look. But Boston is a mere 200 miles from New York. What we’re talk­ing about here is like being in Boston and clear­ly hear­ing a noise com­ing from Dublin, Ire­land. Trav­el­ing at the speed of sound (766 miles or 1,233 kilo­me­ters per hour), it takes a noise about four hours to cov­er that dis­tance. This is the most dis­tant sound that has ever been heard in record­ed his­to­ry.”

Any­one who writes about the sound of Kraka­toa, which split the island itself, strug­gles to prop­er­ly describe it, see­ing as even jet mechan­ics lack a com­pa­ra­ble son­ic expe­ri­ence. Bha­tia quotes the cap­tain of the British ship Norham Cas­tle, 40 miles from Kraka­toa when it erupt­ed, writ­ing in his log that “so vio­lent are the explo­sions that the ear-drums of over half my crew have been shat­tered. My last thoughts are with my dear wife. I am con­vinced that the Day of Judge­ment has come.” Kraka­toa’s rever­ber­a­tions – not heard, but felt and record­ed as changes in atmos­pher­ic pres­sure – passed across the whole of the Earth not once but four times.

The sound of the explo­sion aside, “the rest of the world heard such sto­ries almost instant­ly because a series of under­wa­ter tele­graph cables had been recent­ly laid tra­vers­ing the globe,” writes the Inde­pen­dent’s San­ji­da O’Con­nell. “This new tech­nol­o­gy meant that Kraka­toa also gen­er­at­ed the first mod­ern sci­en­tif­ic study of a vol­canic erup­tion.” A Dutch sci­en­tist named Rogi­er Ver­beek turned up first to gath­er details for a detailed and pio­neer­ing report, fol­lowed by geol­o­gists from Lon­don’s Roy­al Soci­ety, whose 627-page The Erup­tion of Kraka­toa and Sub­se­quent Phe­nom­e­na you can read at the Inter­net Archive.

Since nobody would have got the explo­sion on tape in 1883, such ver­bal descrip­tions will have to suf­fice. Not that even today’s high­est-grade record­ing tech­nol­o­gy could with­stand cap­tur­ing such a sound, nor could even speak­ers that go up to a Spinal Tap-lev­el 11 repro­duce it. And no oth­er sound is like­ly to break Kraka­toa’s record in our life­times – not if we’re lucky, any­way.

via Nau­tilus

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the Destruc­tion of Pom­peii by Mount Vesu­vius, Re-Cre­at­ed with Com­put­er Ani­ma­tion (79 AD)

The Web Site “Cen­turies of Sound” is Mak­ing a Mix­tape for Every Year of Record­ed Sound from 1860 to Present

The British Library’s “Sounds” Archive Presents 80,000 Free Audio Record­ings: World & Clas­si­cal Music, Inter­views, Nature Sounds & More

Down­load 10,000 of the First Record­ings of Music Ever Made, Cour­tesy of the UCSB Cylin­der Audio Archive

Map­ping the Sounds of Greek Byzan­tine Church­es: How Researchers Are Cre­at­ing “Muse­ums of Lost Sound”

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.

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


In 1923, Edwin Hub­ble dis­cov­ered the universe—or rather, he dis­cov­ered a star, and humans learned that the Milky Way wasn’t the whole of the cos­mos. Less than 100 years lat­er, thanks to the tele­scope named after him, NASA sci­en­tists esti­mate the uni­verse con­tains at least 100 bil­lion galax­ies, and who-knows-what beyond that. The expo­nen­tial growth of astro­nom­i­cal data col­lect­ed since Hubble’s time is absolute­ly stag­ger­ing, and it devel­oped in tan­dem with the rev­o­lu­tion­ary increase in com­put­ing pow­er over an even short­er span, which enabled the birth and mutant growth of the inter­net.

Mod­ern “maps” of the inter­net can indeed look like sprawl­ing clus­ters of star sys­tems, puls­ing with light and col­or. But the “weird com­bi­na­tion of phys­i­cal and con­cep­tu­al things,” Bet­sy Mason remarks at Wired, results in such an abstract enti­ty that it can be visu­al­ly illus­trat­ed with an almost unlim­it­ed num­ber of graph­ic tech­niques to rep­re­sent its hun­dreds of mil­lions of users. When the inter­net began as ARPANET in the late six­ties, it includ­ed a total of four loca­tions, all with­in a few hun­dred miles of each oth­er on the West Coast of the Unit­ed States. (See a sketch of the first four “nodes” from 1969 here.)

By 1973, the num­ber of nodes had grown from U.C.L.A, the Stan­ford Research Insti­tute, U.C. San­ta Bar­bara, and the Uni­ver­si­ty of Utah to include loca­tions all over the Mid­west and East Coast, from Har­vard to Case West­ern Reserve Uni­ver­si­ty to the Carnegie Mel­lon School of Com­put­er Sci­ence in Pitts­burgh, where David Newbury’s father worked (and still works). Among his father’s papers, New­bury found the map above from May of ’73, show­ing what seemed like tremen­dous growth in only a few short years.

The map is not geo­graph­i­cal but schemat­ic, with 36 square “nodes”—early routers—and 42 oval com­put­er hosts (one pop­u­lar main­frame, the mas­sive PDP-10, is sprin­kled through­out), and only nam­ing a few key loca­tions. Sig­nif­i­cant­ly, Hawaii appears as a node, linked to the main­land by satel­lite. Just above, you can see an update from just a few months lat­er, now rep­re­sent­ing 40 nodes and 45 com­put­ers. “The net­work,” writes Seli­na Chang, “became inter­na­tion­al: a satel­lite link con­nect­ed ARPANET to nodes in Nor­way and Lon­don, send­ing 2.9 mil­lion pack­ets of infor­ma­tion every day.”

These ear­ly net­works of glob­al inter­con­nec­tiv­i­ty, cre­at­ed by the Defense Depart­ment and used most­ly by sci­en­tists, pre­date Tim Bern­ers-Lee and CERN’s devel­op­ment of the World Wide Web in 1991, which opened up the enor­mous, expand­ing alter­nate uni­verse we know as the inter­net today (and was, coin­ci­den­tal­ly, invent­ed around the same time as the Hub­ble Tele­scope). Though maps aren’t ter­ri­to­ries (a 1977 ARPANET “log­i­cal map” dis­claims total accu­ra­cy in a note at the bot­tom), these ear­ly rep­re­sen­ta­tions of the inter­net resem­ble medieval maps of the cos­mos next to the beau­ti­ful com­plex­i­ty of glow­ing col­ors we see in 21st cen­tu­ry info­graph­ics like the author­i­ta­tive­ly-named “The Inter­net Map.”

via Vice

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­to­ry of the Inter­net in 8 Min­utes

What Hap­pens on the Inter­net in 60 Sec­onds

The Inter­net Imag­ined in 1969

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

The Vincent Van Gogh Action Figure, Complete with Detachable Ear

If you liked Mr. Pota­to Head, you may love the Vin­cent Van Gogh Action Fig­ure, which raised $142,000 on Kick­starter this sum­mer and can now be pur­chased for $35 over at the Today is Art Day web site. Made of PVC and stand­ing 5 inch­es high, the action fig­ure comes with:

  • 2 remov­able ears (Van Gogh cut his left ear)
  • 1 ban­daged ear
  • 1 paint­brush
  • 5 mas­ter­pieces and 1 card­board easel
  • 10 fun facts about the artist on the box

Oth­er fig­ures includ­ed in the col­lec­tion include Fri­da Kahlo and soon Ver­meer, da Vin­ci, Magritte and Rem­brandt. Enjoy.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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:

The Edvard Munch Scream Action Fig­ure

The Fri­da Kahlo Action Fig­ure

Famous Philoso­phers Imag­ined as Action Fig­ures: Plun­der­ous Pla­to, Dan­ger­ous Descartes & More

Hierony­mus Bosch Fig­urines: Col­lect Sur­re­al Char­ac­ters from Bosch’s Paint­ings & Put Them on Your Book­shelf

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How the Japanese Practice of “Forest Bathing”—Or Just Hanging Out in the Woods—Can Lower Stress Levels and Fight Disease

When the U.S. media began report­ing on the phe­nom­e­non of “for­est bathing” as a ther­a­py for men­tal and phys­i­cal health, the online commentariat—as it will—mocked the con­cept relent­less­ly as yet anoth­er pre­ten­tious, bour­geois repack­ag­ing of some­thing thor­ough­ly mun­dane. Didn’t we just used to call it “going out­side”?

Well, yes, if all “for­est bathing” means is “going out­side,” then it does sound like a grandiose and unnec­es­sary phrase. The term, how­ev­er, is not an Amer­i­can mar­ket­ing inven­tion but a trans­la­tion of the Japan­ese shin­rin-yoku. “Coined by the Japan­ese Min­istry of Agri­cul­ture, Forestry and Fish­eries in 1982,” writes Meeri Kim at The Wash­ing­ton Post, “the word lit­er­al­ly trans­lates to ‘tak­ing in the for­est atmos­phere’ or ‘for­est bathing’ and refers to the process of soak­ing up the sights, smells and sounds of a nat­ur­al set­ting to pro­mote phys­i­o­log­i­cal and psy­cho­log­i­cal health.”

So what? We already have the exam­ples of thou­sands years of Bud­dhist monks (and Thich Nat Hanh), of Hen­ry David Thore­au, and the saints of the Sier­ra Club. But the old­est and most use­ful ideas and prac­tices can get care­less­ly dis­card­ed in the fran­tic pur­suit of inno­va­tion at all costs. The push­ing of hi-tech out­door gear, wear­able activ­i­ty track­ers, and health apps that ask us to log every move­ment can make going out­side feel like a daunt­ing, expen­sive chore or a com­pet­i­tive event.

For­est bathing involves none of those things. “Just be with the trees,” as Ephrat Livni describes the prac­tice, “no hik­ing, no count­ing steps on a Fit­bit. You can sit or mean­der, but the point is to relax rather than accom­plish any­thing.” You don’t have to hug the trees if you don’t want to, but at least sit under one for a spell. Even if you don’t attain enlight­en­ment, you very well may reduce stress and boost immune func­tion, accord­ing to sev­er­al Japan­ese stud­ies con­duct­ed between 2004 and 2012.

The Japan­ese gov­ern­ment spent around four mil­lion dol­lars on stud­ies con­duct­ed with hun­dreds of peo­ple “bathing” on 48 des­ig­nat­ed ther­a­py trails. In his work, Qing Li, asso­ciate pro­fes­sor at Nip­pon Med­ical School in Tokyo, found “sig­nif­i­cant increas­es in NK [nat­ur­al killer] cell activ­i­ty in the week after a for­est vis­it… pos­i­tive effects last­ed a month fol­low­ing each week­end in the woods.” Nat­ur­al killer cells fight virus­es and can­cers, and are appar­ent­ly stim­u­lat­ed by the oils that trees them­selves secrete to ward off germs and pests. See the pro­fes­sor explain in the video above (he trans­lates shin­rin-yoku as tak­ing a “for­est show­er,” and also claims to have bot­tled some of the effects).

Addi­tion­al­ly, exper­i­ments con­duct­ed by Japan’s Chi­ba Uni­ver­si­ty found that for­est bathing low­ered heart rate and blood pres­sure and brought down lev­els of cor­ti­sol, the stress hor­mone that can wreak hav­oc on every sys­tem when large amounts cir­cu­late through the body. Then there are the less tan­gi­ble psy­cho­log­i­cal ben­e­fits of tak­ing in the trees. Sub­jects in one study “showed sig­nif­i­cant­ly reduced hos­til­i­ty and depres­sion scores” after a walk in the woods. These find­ings under­score that spend­ing time in the for­est is a med­ical inter­ven­tion as well as an aes­thet­ic and spir­i­tu­al one, some­thing sci­en­tists have long observed but haven’t been able to quan­ti­fy.

In their review of a book called Your Brain on Nature, Moth­er Earth News quotes Franklin Hough, first chief of the U.S. Divi­sion of Forestry, who remarked in a 19th cen­tu­ry med­ical jour­nal that forests have “a cheer­ful and tran­quil­iz­ing influ­ence which they exert upon the mind, more espe­cial­ly when worn down by men­tal labor.” Hough’s hypoth­e­sis has been con­firmed, and despite what might sound to Eng­lish speak­ers like a slight­ly ridicu­lous name, for­est bathing is seri­ous ther­a­py, espe­cial­ly for the ever-increas­ing num­ber of urban­ites and those who spend their days in strip malls, office com­plex­es, and oth­er over­built envi­ron­ments.

What is a guid­ed for­est bathing expe­ri­ence like? You can lis­ten to NPR’s Ali­son Aubrey describe one above. She quotes Amos Clif­ford, founder of the Asso­ci­a­tion of Nature & For­est Ther­a­py, the cer­ti­fy­ing orga­ni­za­tion, as say­ing that a guide “helps you be here, not there,” sort of like a med­i­ta­tion instruc­tor. Clif­ford has been push­ing health care providers to “incor­po­rate for­est ther­a­py as a stress-reduc­tion strat­e­gy” in the U.S., and there’s no ques­tion that more stress reduc­tion tools are sore­ly need­ed.

But, you may won­der, do you have to call it “for­est bathing,” or pay for a cer­ti­fied guide, join a group, and buy some fan­cy out­er­wear to get the ben­e­fits hang­ing out with trees? I say, con­sid­er the words of John Muir, the inde­fati­ga­ble 19th nat­u­ral­ist, “father of the Nation­al Park Sys­tem,” and found­ing saint of the Sier­ra Club: In the eter­nal youth of Nature you may renew your own. Go qui­et­ly, alone; no harm will befall you. The quote may under­es­ti­mate the amount of risk or over­state the ben­e­fits, but you get the idea. Muir was not one to get tan­gled up in seman­tics or over­ly detailed analy­sis. Nonethe­less, his work inspired Amer­i­cans to step in and pre­serve so much of the coun­try’s for­est in the 19th and 20th cen­turies. Maybe the pre­ven­ta­tive med­i­cine of “for­est bathing” can help do the same in the 21st.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Walk­ing Fos­ters Cre­ativ­i­ty: Stan­ford Researchers Con­firm What Philoso­phers and Writ­ers Have Always Known

How Mind­ful­ness Makes Us Hap­pi­er & Bet­ter Able to Meet Life’s Chal­lenges: Two Ani­mat­ed Primers Explain

This Is Your Brain on Exer­cise: Why Phys­i­cal Exer­cise (Not Men­tal Games) Might Be the Best Way to Keep Your Mind Sharp

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

Dr. Demento’s New Punk Album Features William Shatner Singing The Cramps, Weird Al Yankovic Singing The Ramones & Much More

Call­ing all fans of the Dr. Demen­to Show. The new album, Dr. Demen­to Cov­ered in Punk, fea­tures “dement­ed” cov­ers of clas­sic punk tunes and “30 cov­ers of songs orig­i­nal­ly aired on the Dr. Demen­to radio show.” Think “Fish Heads.”

On the nos­tal­gia-induc­ing album, you can notably enjoy two fix­tures of Amer­i­can odd­ball cul­ture, William Shat­ner and Weird Al Yankovic, singing “The Garbage­man” by The Cramps (above) and The Ramones’ “Beat on the Brat” (below). The Mis­fits, Joan Jett, Fred Schnei­der of the B52s, the Van­dals, The Dead Milk­men, The Meatmen–they all make an appear­ance on the album too. It’s due out today.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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:

The His­to­ry of Punk Rock in 200 Tracks: An 11-Hour Playlist Takes You From 1965 to 2016

The Cramps Play a Men­tal Hos­pi­tal in Napa, Cal­i­for­nia in 1978: The Punk­est of Punk Con­certs

Two Leg­ends: Weird Al Yankovic “Inter­views” James Brown (1986)

DC’s Leg­endary Punk Label Dischord Records Makes Its Entire Music Cat­a­log Free to Stream Online

A 17-Hour Chronological Playlist of Beatles Songs: 338 Tracks Let You Hear the Musical Evolution of the Iconic Band

The Bea­t­les have seem­ing­ly nev­er been just a band; they’ve been a brand, a his­to­ry, an insti­tu­tion, a genre, a gen­er­a­tional sound­track, a mer­chan­dis­ing empire, and so much more—possessed of the kind of cul­tur­al impor­tance that makes it impos­si­ble to think of them as only musi­cians. Their “nar­ra­tive arc,” Tom Ewing writes at Pitch­fork, from Beat­le­ma­nia to their cur­rent enshrine­ment and every­thing in-between, “is irre­sistible.” But the sto­ry of the Bea­t­les as we typ­i­cal­ly under­stand it, Ewing writes, does their music a dis­ser­vice, set­ting it apart from “the rest of the pop world” and “mak­ing new­com­ers as resent­ful as curi­ous.”

For all the deifi­ca­tion (which John Lennon scan­dalous­ly summed up in his “big­ger than Jesus” quip), the band began as noth­ing par­tic­u­lar­ly out of the ordi­nary. “Britain in the ear­ly 1960s swarmed with rock’n’roll bands,” and though the Bea­t­les excelled ear­ly on, they most­ly fol­lowed trends, they didn’t invent them.

Their sound was so of the time that Decca’s A&R exec­u­tive Dick Rowe passed on them in 1962, telling Bri­an Epstein, “gui­tar groups are on their way out.” Lit­tle could he have known, how­ev­er: “gui­tar groups” came roar­ing back because of the band’s first album, Please, Please Me, and the espe­cial­ly savvy mar­ket­ing skills of Epstein, who helped land them that fate­ful Ed Sul­li­van Show appear­ance.

Mil­lions of peo­ple saw them play their sin­gle “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and the world changed for­ev­er, so the sto­ry goes. In so many ways that’s so. The Ed Sul­li­van gig launched a thou­sand bands, and remains at top of the list of near­ly every baby boomer musician’s most influ­en­tial moments. But as the six­ties wore on, and Beat­le­ma­nia assumed the var­i­ous forms of lunch­box­es, fan clubs, and a wacky car­toon series with bad­ly imper­son­at­ed voic­es, their act seemed like it might run its course as a pass­ing pop-cul­ture fad. They were, in effect, a very tal­ent­ed boy band, sub­ject to the fate of boy bands every­where. Their ascent into Olym­pus wasn’t inevitable, and “every record they made was born out of a new set of chal­lenges.”

Rub­ber Soul, the band’s 1965 farewell to the care­free, boy­ish pop band they had been, per­fect­ly met the chal­lenge they faced—how to grow up. It was “the most out-there music they’d ever made, but also their warmest, friend­liest and most emo­tion­al­ly direct,” Rob Sheffield writes at Rolling Stone. They were “smok­ing loads of weed, so all through these songs, wild humor and deep emo­tion go hand in hand.” These threads of play­ful, drug-fueled exper­i­men­ta­tion, screw­ball com­e­dy, and earnest sen­ti­ment changed not only the band’s career tra­jec­to­ry, but “cut the sto­ry of pop music in half,” Sheffield opines.

Such procla­ma­tions can and have been made of the ground­break­ing Sgt. Pepper’s Lone­ly Hearts Club Band. Each Bea­t­les mile­stone cements our impres­sion of them as a mes­sian­ic force, des­tined to steer the course of pop music history—a sto­ry that gloss­es over their nov­el­ty records, less­er works, many out­takes and half thoughts, cov­er songs, and flops, like their 1967 Mag­i­cal Mys­tery Tour film. Some of these less­er works deserve the label. The mel­lotron-heavy “Only a North­ern Song” on Yel­low Sub­ma­rine, for exam­ple, sounds far too much like an infe­ri­or “Straw­ber­ry Fields For­ev­er.”

Oth­ers, like the Mag­i­cal Mys­tery Tour sound­track album, give us gems like McCartney’s “Pen­ny Lane” (a song orig­i­nal­ly record­ed dur­ing the Sgt. Pepper’s ses­sions), as well as “I Am the Wal­rus,” “Hel­lo Good­bye,” “Baby, You’re a Rich Man,” “All You Need is Love” … the film may have dis­ap­point­ed, but the record, I’d say, is essen­tial.

In the chrono­log­i­cal Spo­ti­fy playlist fur­ther up of 338 songs, you can fol­low the quirky, upbeat, down­beat, some­times uneven, some­times breath­tak­ing­ly bril­liant musi­cal jour­ney of the band every­one thinks they know and see why they are so much more inter­est­ing than a muse­um exhib­it or rock and roll mythol­o­gy. They were, after all, only human, but their will­ing­ness to indulge in weird exper­i­ments and to mas­ter genre exer­cis­es gave them the dis­ci­pline and expe­ri­ence they need­ed to make their mas­ter­pieces.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How The Bea­t­les’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lone­ly Hearts Club Band Changed Album Cov­er Design For­ev­er

Watch HD Ver­sions of The Bea­t­les’ Pio­neer­ing Music Videos: “Hey Jude,” “Pen­ny Lane,” “Rev­o­lu­tion” & More

Hear the 1962 Bea­t­les Demo that Dec­ca Reject­ed: “Gui­tar Groups are on Their Way Out, Mr. Epstein”

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

How to Draw in the Style of Japanese Manga: A Series of Free & Wildly Popular Video Tutorials from Artist Mark Crilley

In Japan, the word man­ga refers broad­ly to the art form we know in Eng­lish as comics. But as used in the West, it refers to a com­ic art style with dis­tinc­tive aes­thet­ic and sto­ry­telling con­ven­tions of its own, orig­i­nat­ing from but now no longer lim­it­ed to Japan. Just as the past cen­tu­ry or so has seen the emer­gence of West­ern mas­ters of such things thor­ough­ly Japan­ese as sushi, judo, and even tea cer­e­mo­ny, the past few decades brought us the work of the West­ern man­ga­ka, or man­ga artist. Mark Cril­ley stands as one of the best-known prac­ti­tion­ers of that short tra­di­tion, thanks not only to his art but to his efforts to teach fans how to draw in the style of Japan­ese man­ga them­selves as well.

Apart from com­ic-book series like Akiko, Miki Falls, and Brody’s Ghost, the Detroit-born Cril­ley has also pub­lished a tril­o­gy of Mas­ter­ing Man­ga instruc­tion­al books. In an inter­view with Wired, he frames his own man­ga-mas­ter­ing process as a project sim­i­lar to lan­guage-learn­ing: “When I went to Tai­wan to teach Eng­lish after grad­u­at­ing from col­lege, I threw myself into learn­ing Chi­nese with a real ‘tun­nel vision’ kind of ded­i­ca­tion. As a result I became con­ver­sa­tion­al in Man­darin with­in about a year. More recent­ly I decid­ed to teach myself how to draw in a man­ga-influ­enced style and thus focused exclu­sive­ly on that for many months.”

Cril­ley first took to Youtube to pro­mote his then-new man­ga series, but he “soon found that peo­ple were watch­ing my videos as draw­ing lessons. As more peo­ple watched I got hooked on pass­ing on draw­ing tips to the next gen­er­a­tion, and so I con­tin­ued pro­duc­ing more and more instruc­tion­al videos.”

More young­sters seem to have an inter­est in draw­ing in the style of Japan­ese comics and ani­ma­tion than ever (at least if my friends’ kids are gen­er­a­tional­ly rep­re­sen­ta­tive), and Cril­ley finds that they “appre­ci­ate hav­ing an art teacher who takes man­ga seri­ous­ly, and doesn’t dis­miss it as an infe­ri­or art form. I’m sure plen­ty of art teach­ers are all, ‘Stop draw­ing those saucer-eyed char­ac­ters! Draw this still life instead!’ ”

Not to say that Cril­ley does­n’t appre­ci­ate real­ism: he’s put out a whole book on the sub­ject, and some of his instruc­tion­al videos cov­er how to draw life­like eyes (a tuto­r­i­al that has drawn 27 mil­lion views and count­ing), leop­ards, mush­rooms, and much else besides. But for the aspir­ing man­ga­ka of any nation­al­i­ty, his Youtube chan­nel offers a wealth of lessons on how to draw every­thing from faces to clothes to fig­ures in motion to big eyes in the man­ga aes­thet­ic. But as he sure­ly knows — hav­ing cit­ed in the Wired inter­view a wide range of influ­ences from Star Wars to Mad mag­a­zine to Mon­ty Python’s Fly­ing Cir­cus — if you want to tru­ly find your own style, you can’t lim­it your­self to any one source of inspi­ra­tion. Acquire the skills, of course, but then take them to new places.

You can see a playlist of 256 how-to-draw videos by Cril­ley here. Or a series of small­er draw­ing playlists here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Big List of Free Art Lessons on YouTube

How to Draw the Human Face & Head: A Free 3‑Hour Tuto­r­i­al

Watch Ground­break­ing Com­ic Artist Mœbius Draw His Char­ac­ters in Real Time

Car­toon­ist Lyn­da Bar­ry Shows You How to Draw Bat­man in Her UW-Madi­son Course, “Mak­ing Comics”

W.B. Yeats’ Poem “When You Are Old” Adapt­ed into a Japan­ese Man­ga Com­ic

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.


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