Search Results for "forma"

Hear the Long-Lost Chants of English Monks, Revived for the First Time in 500 Years

Lis­ten­ing to music, espe­cial­ly live music, can be a reli­gious expe­ri­ence. These days, most of us say that fig­u­ra­tive­ly, but for medieval monks, it was the lit­er­al truth. Every aspect of life in a monastery was meant to get you that much clos­er to God, but espe­cial­ly the times when every­one came togeth­er and sang. For Eng­lish monks accus­tomed to that way of life, it would have come as quite a shock, to say the very least, when Hen­ry VIII ordered the dis­so­lu­tion of the monas­ter­ies between the mid fif­teen-thir­ties and the ear­ly fif­teen-for­ties. Not only were the inhab­i­tants of those refuges sent pack­ing, their sacred music was cast to the wind.

Near­ly half a mil­len­ni­um lat­er, that music is still being recov­ered. As report­ed by the Guardian’s Steven Mor­ris, Uni­ver­si­ty of Exeter his­to­ri­an James Clark found the lat­est exam­ple while research­ing the still-stand­ing Buck­land Abbey in Devon for the Nation­al Trust.

“Only one book — rather bor­ing­ly set­ting out the cus­toms the monks fol­lowed — was known to exist, held in the British Library.” But lo and behold, a few leaves of parch­ment stuck in the back hap­pened to con­tain pieces of ear­ly six­teenth-cen­tu­ry music, or rather chant, with both text and nota­tion, a van­ish­ing­ly rare sort of arti­fact of medieval monas­tic life.

Just this month, for the first time in almost five cen­turies, the music from the “Buck­land book” res­onat­ed with­in the walls of Buck­land Abbey once again. You can hear a clip from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Exeter chapel choir’s per­for­mance just above, which may or may not get across the grim­ness of the orig­i­nal work. “The themes are heavy — the threats from dis­ease and crop fail­ures, not to men­tion pow­er­ful rulers — but the poly­phon­ic style is bright and joy­ful, a con­trast to the sort of mourn­ful chants most asso­ci­at­ed with monks,” writes Mor­ris. For lis­ten­ers here in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry, these com­po­si­tions offer the addi­tion­al tran­scen­den­tal dimen­sion of aes­thet­ic time trav­el. The only way their redis­cov­ery could be more for­tu­itous is if it had hap­pened in time to ben­e­fit from the nine­teen-nineties Gre­go­ri­an-chant boom.

Relat­ed con­tent:

See the Guidon­ian Hand, the Medieval Sys­tem for Read­ing Music, Get Brought Back to Life

A YouTube Chan­nel Com­plete­ly Devot­ed to Medieval Sacred Music: Hear Gre­go­ri­an Chant, Byzan­tine Chant & More

The Medieval Ban Against the “Devil’s Tri­tone”: Debunk­ing a Great Myth in Music The­o­ry

New Dig­i­tal Archive Will Bring Medieval Chants Back to Life: Project Amra Will Fea­ture 300 Dig­i­tized Man­u­scripts and Many Audio Record­ings

A Beat­box­ing Bud­dhist Monk Cre­ates Music for Med­i­ta­tion

The His­to­ry of Clas­si­cal Music in 1200 Tracks: From Gre­go­ri­an Chant to Górec­ki (100 Hours of Audio)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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1,000+ Artworks by Vincent Van Gogh Digitized & Put Online by Dutch Museums

It gets dark before din­ner now in my part of the world, a recipe for sea­son­al depres­sion. Vin­cent van Gogh wrote about such low feel­ings with deep insight. “One feels as if one were lying bound hand and foot at the bot­tom of a deep dark well, utter­ly help­less.” Yet, when he looked up at the night sky he saw not dark­ness but blaz­ing light: a full moon shines yel­low from White House at Night like the sun, and peeks like a gold coin from behind blue moun­tains in Land­scape with Wheat Sheaves and Ris­ing Moon. The stars in Star­ry Night Over the Rhône appear like fire­works. We are all famil­iar with the blaz­ing night sky of its sequel, The Star­ry Night.

It’s been sug­gest­ed that Van Gogh saw halos of light because of lead poi­son­ing from his paint, and that the Dig­i­tal­is Dr. Gachet pre­scribed for his tem­po­ral lobe epilep­sy caused him to “see in yel­low,” the Van Gogh Gallery Blog writes, “or see yel­low spots which could explain van Gogh’s con­sis­tent use of the col­or yel­low in his lat­er works.”

His most bril­liant works date from this lat­er peri­od, dur­ing his time at the hos­pi­tal at Arles, where he paint­ed his famous bed­room. All of these paint­ings, and hun­dreds more, can be found in high-res­o­lu­tion scans at the new van Gogh resource, Van Gogh World­wide, “a con­sor­tium of muse­ums,” notes Madeleine Muz­dakis at My Mod­ern Met, “doing their part to bring the work of one of the world’s most famous artists to the glob­al mass­es.”

The muse­ums rep­re­sent­ed here are all in the Nether­lands and include the Van Gogh Muse­um, Kröller-Müller Muse­um, the Rijksmu­se­um, the Nether­lands Insti­tute for Art His­to­ry, and the Muse­um Boi­j­mans Van Beunin­gen. Van Gogh was not only a pro­lif­ic painter, of shin­ing night scenes and oth­er­wise, but he was “also a pro­lif­ic sketch artist. His pen­cil and paper draw­ings are worth explo­ration; they depict land­scapes as well as emo­tive fig­ures from Van Gogh’s every­day life. Van Gogh World­wide pro­vides insight into these works of art and the artist behind them. One can also find behind-the-scenes muse­um infor­ma­tion, such as details of restora­tions, ver­so (back) images, and oth­er cura­to­r­i­al notes.”

Van Gogh World­wide expands oth­er dig­i­tal col­lec­tions like the Van Gogh Museum’s almost 1,000 online works. Where that resource includes short infor­ma­tion­al arti­cles and links to lit­er­a­ture about the art­works, Van Gogh World­wide does not, as yet, fea­ture such addi­tion­al mate­ri­als, but it does include links to Van Gogh’s let­ters. In one of them, he writes to his broth­er, Theo, about their par­ents: “They’ll find it dif­fi­cult to under­stand my state of mind, and not know what dri­ves me when they see me do things that seem strange and pecu­liar to them—will blame them on dis­sat­is­fac­tion, indif­fer­ence or non­cha­lance, while the cause lies else­where, name­ly the desire, at all costs, to pur­sue what I must have for my work.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2020.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Vin­cent Van Gogh’s “The Star­ry Night”: Why It’s a Great Paint­ing in 15 Min­utes

Down­load Hun­dreds of Van Gogh Paint­ings, Sketch­es & Let­ters in High Res­o­lu­tion

Dis­cov­er the Only Paint­ing Van Gogh Ever Sold Dur­ing His Life­time

Vin­cent Van Gogh’s Final Paint­ing: Dis­cov­er Tree Roots, the Last Cre­ative Act of the Dutch Painter (1890)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

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The 1830s Device That Created the First Animations: The Phenakistiscope

The image just above is an ani­mat­ed GIF, a for­mat by now old­er than most peo­ple on the inter­net. Those of us who were surf­ing the World Wide Web in its ear­li­est years will remem­ber all those lit­tle dig­ging, jack­ham­mer­ing road­work­ers who flanked the per­ma­nent announce­ments that var­i­ous sites — includ­ing, quite pos­si­bly, our own — were “under con­struc­tion.” Charm­ing though they could be at the time, they now look impos­si­bly prim­i­tive com­pared to what we can see on today’s inter­net, where high-res­o­lu­tion fea­ture films stream instan­ta­neous­ly. But tech­no­log­i­cal­ly speak­ing, we can trace it all back to what this par­tic­u­lar ani­mat­ed GIF depicts: the phenakistis­cope.

Invent­ed simul­ta­ne­ous­ly and inde­pen­dent­ly in late 1832 by Bel­gian physi­cist Joseph Plateau and Aus­tri­an geom­e­try pro­fes­sor Simon Stampfer, the phenakistis­cope was a sim­ple wheel-shaped device that could, for the first time in the his­to­ry of tech­nol­o­gy, cre­ate the illu­sion of a smooth­ly mov­ing pic­ture when spun and viewed in a mir­ror: hence the deriva­tion of its name from the Greek phenakisti­cos, “to deceive,” and ops, “eye.”

When it caught on as a com­mer­cial nov­el­ty, it was also mar­ket­ed under names like Phan­tas­mas­cope and Fan­tas­cope, which promised buy­ers a glimpse of horse-rid­ers, twirling dancers, bow­ing aris­to­crats, hop­ping frogs, fly­ing ghouls, and even pro­to-psy­che­del­ic abstract pat­terns, many of which you can see re-ani­mat­ed as GIFs in this Wikipedia gallery.

Even­tu­al­ly, accord­ing to the Pub­lic Domain Review, the phenakistis­cope was “sup­plant­ed in the pop­u­lar imag­i­na­tion: first­ly by the sim­i­lar Zoetrope, and then — via Ead­weard Muy­bridge’s Zooprax­is­cope (which pro­ject­ed the ani­ma­tion) — by film itself.” Muy­bridge, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, did pio­neer­ing motion-pho­tog­ra­phy work in the eigh­teen-sev­en­ties that’s now con­sid­ered a pre­cur­sor to cin­e­ma. Under­stand­ing what he was up to is an impor­tant part of under­stand­ing the emer­gence of movies as we know them. But the most instruc­tive expe­ri­ence to start with is mak­ing a phenakistis­cope of your own, instruc­tions for which are avail­able from the George East­man Muse­um and artist Megan Scott on YouTube. The fin­ished prod­uct may not hold any­one’s atten­tion long here in the age of Net­flix, but then, the age of Net­flix would nev­er have arrived had the phenakistis­cope not come first.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Ead­weard Muybridge’s Motion Pho­tog­ra­phy Exper­i­ments from the 1870s Pre­sent­ed in 93 Ani­mat­ed Gifs

How Ani­mat­ed Car­toons Are Made: A Vin­tage Primer Filmed Way Back in 1919

The Trick That Made Ani­ma­tion Real­is­tic: Watch a Short His­to­ry of Roto­scop­ing

Was a 32,000-Year-Old Cave Paint­ing the Ear­li­est Form of Cin­e­ma?

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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Watch Momijigari, Japan’s Oldest Surviving Film (1899)

At first, film sim­ply record­ed events: a man walk­ing across a gar­den, work­ers leav­ing a fac­to­ry, a train pulling into a sta­tion. The medi­um soon matured enough to accom­mo­date dra­ma, which for ear­ly film­mak­ers meant sim­ply shoot­ing what amount­ed to stage pro­duc­tions from the per­spec­tive of a view­er in the audi­ence. At that stage, we could say, film still had­n’t evolved past sim­ple doc­u­men­tary pur­pos­es, hav­ing yet to incor­po­rate edit­ing, to say noth­ing of the oth­er qual­i­ties we now regard as char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly cin­e­mat­ic. This was­n’t a cul­tur­al mat­ter, but a tech­ni­cal one, as evi­denced by Momi­ji­gari, the old­est Japan­ese film in exis­tence.

Shot in 1899, Momi­ji­gari depicts near­ly four min­utes of a kabu­ki play involv­ing Onoe Kiku­gorō V and Ichikawa Dan­jūrō IX, two famous mas­ters of the form at the time. The idea was to pre­serve a record of their pres­ence on stage, no mat­ter how hap­haz­ard­ly or for how short a time, before they shuf­fled off this mor­tal coil.

It cer­tain­ly was­n’t too soon: both men would die in 1903, the year of the film’s first exhi­bi­tion. No fan of West­ern moder­ni­ty, Dan­jūrō had stip­u­lat­ed that it be shown only after his death, but in the event, it was screened for the pub­lic in his place at a per­for­mance at which he was too sick to appear, which extend­ed to a longer run in hon­or of Kiku­gorō’s recent death.

Like its West­ern his­tor­i­cal equiv­a­lents, Momi­ji­gari depicts a the­atri­cal work. The tit­u­lar six­teenth-cen­tu­ry Noh play, also per­formed in kabu­ki and dance-ori­ent­ed shosago­to ver­sions, involves a woman and her ret­inue on an out­ing to do some maple-leaf view­ing (the lit­er­al mean­ing of momi­ji­gari). Like all female kabu­ki roles, these would have been played with­out excep­tion by male actors, who were in any case thought bet­ter able to con­vey fem­i­nin­i­ty onstage. The lady entices a pass­ing war­rior to drink, and when he pass­es out, he’s informed in his dream that she’s actu­al­ly a demon. In the fol­low­ing scene, she reverts to demon form and the two do bat­tle. Pio­neer­ing Japan­ese film­mak­er Shi­ba­ta Tsune­kichi fits a sur­pris­ing amount of this nar­ra­tive into a very brief run­time, which also includes the whol­ly acci­den­tal loss of a fan. Dan­jūrō had insist­ed on shoot­ing out­side, even on a windy day, and one does­n’t sim­ply say no to a kabu­ki mas­ter.

via Metafil­ter

Relat­ed con­tent:

An Intro­duc­tion to Japan­ese Kabu­ki The­atre, Fea­tur­ing 20th-Cen­tu­ry Mas­ters of the Form (1964)

Watch the Old­est Japan­ese Ani­me Film, Jun’ichi Kōuchi’s The Dull Sword (1917)

The Ear­li­est Known Motion Pic­ture, 1888’s Round­hay Gar­den Scene, Restored with Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence

Essen­tial Japan­ese Cin­e­ma: A Jour­ney Through 50 of Japan’s Beau­ti­ful, Often Bizarre Films

Hand-Col­ored 1860s Pho­tographs Reveal the Last Days of Samu­rai Japan

Watch Vin­tage Footage of Tokyo, Cir­ca 1910, Get Brought to Life with Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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Take a Virtual Tour of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre in London

The sto­ry of the Globe The­atre, the ances­tral home of Shakespeare’s plays, is itself very Shake­speare­an, in all of the ways we use that adjec­tive: it has deep roots in Eng­lish his­to­ry, a trag­ic back­sto­ry, and rep­re­sents all of the hodge­podge of Lon­don, in the ear­ly 17th cen­tu­ry and today, with the city’s col­or­ful street life, min­gling of inter­na­tion­al cul­tures, high and low, and its delight in the play and inter­play of lan­guages.

“The first pub­lic play­hous­es,” notes the British Library, “were built in Lon­don in the late 1500s. The­atres were not per­mit­ted with­in the bound­aries of the City itself”—theater not being con­sid­ered a respectable art—”but were tol­er­at­ed in the out­er dis­tricts of Lon­don, such as South­wark, where the Globe was locat­ed. South­wark was noto­ri­ous for its noisy, chaot­ic enter­tain­ments and for its sleazy low-life: its the­atres, broth­els, bear bait­ing pits, pick­pock­ets and the like.”

The Globe began its life in 1599, in a sto­ry that “might be wor­thy,” writes the Shake­speare Resource Cen­ter, “of a Shake­speare­an play of its own.” Built from the tim­bers of the city’s first per­ma­nent the­ater, the Burbage, which opened in 1576, the Globe burned down in 1613 “when a can­non shot dur­ing a per­for­mance of Hen­ry VIII ignit­ed the thatched roof in the gallery.” With­in the year, it was rebuilt on the same foun­da­tions (with a tiled roof) and oper­at­ed until the Puri­tans shut it down in 1642, demol­ish­ing the famed open-air the­ater two years lat­er.

In a twist to this so far very Eng­lish tale, it took the tire­less efforts of an expa­tri­ate Amer­i­can, actor-direc­tor Sam Wana­mak­er, to bring the Globe back to Lon­don. After more than two decades of advo­ca­cy, Wanamaker’s Globe Play­house Trust suc­ceed­ed in recre­at­ing the Globe, just a short dis­tance from the orig­i­nal loca­tion. Open­ing in 1997, three-hun­dred and fifty-five years after the first Globe closed, the new Globe The­atre recre­at­ed all of the orig­i­nal’s archi­tec­tur­al ele­ments.

The stage projects into the cir­cu­lar court­yard, designed for stand­ing spec­ta­tors and sur­round­ed by three tiers of seats. While the stage itself has an elab­o­rate paint­ed roof, and the seat­ing is pro­tect­ed from the weath­er by the only thatched roof in Lon­don since the 1666 Great Fire, the theater’s court­yard is open to the sky. How­ev­er, where the orig­i­nal Globe held about 2,000 stand­ing and 1,000 seat­ed play­go­ers, the recre­ation, notes Time Out Lon­don, holds only about half that num­ber.

Still, the­ater-goers can “get a rich feel for what it was like to be a ‘groundling’ (the stand­ing rab­ble at the front of the stage) in the cir­cu­lar, open-air the­atre.” Short of that, we can tour the Globe in the vir­tu­al recre­ation at the top of the post. Move around in any direc­tion and look up at the sky. As you do, click on the tiny cir­cles to reveal facts such as “Prob­a­bly the first Shake­speare play to be per­formed at the Globe was Julius Cae­sar, in 1599.”

If you don’t have the lux­u­ry of vis­it­ing the new Globe, tak­ing a tour, or see­ing a per­for­mance lov­ing­ly-recre­at­ed with all of the cos­tum­ing (and even pro­nun­ci­a­tion) from Jacobean Eng­land, you can get the fla­vor of this won­drous achieve­ment in bring­ing cul­tur­al his­to­ry into the present with the vir­tu­al tour, also avail­able as an app for iPhone and iPad users. This inter­ac­tive tour super­sedes a pre­vi­ous ver­sion we fea­tured a few years back.

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!

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2018.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Behold Shakespeare’s First Folio, the First Pub­lished Col­lec­tion of Shakespeare’s Plays, Pub­lished 400 Year Ago (1623)

Hear What Shake­speare Sound­ed Like in the Orig­i­nal Pro­nun­ci­a­tion

3,000 Illus­tra­tions of Shakespeare’s Com­plete Works from Vic­to­ri­an Eng­land, Pre­sent­ed in a Dig­i­tal Archive

Read All of Shakespeare’s Plays Free Online, Cour­tesy of the Fol­ger Shake­speare Library

A Playlist of 45 Shake­speare Film Trail­ers, from 1935 — 2021

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

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Hear Joey Ramone Sing a Piece by John Cage Adapted from James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake

In 1942, John Cage com­posed a short piece of music adapt­ed from the text of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. Titled “The Won­der­ful Wid­ow of Eigh­teen Springs,” the piece was orig­i­nal­ly com­mis­sioned and per­formed by ama­teur sopra­no and socialite Jus­tine Fair­bank, and while we don’t have a record­ing of her per­for­mance, we do have Cage’s sheet music (see first page above, or view the entire book here). It is—as one might expect—an unusu­al piece. It sounds like song, yet isn’t. As the Library of Con­gress descrip­tion of the piece has it:

This essen­tial­ly rhyth­mic speech set against a pat­terned per­cus­sive accom­pa­ni­ment can­not be con­sid­ered a song in the usu­al sense. Cage, how­ev­er, is such an inno­va­tor that one often los­es sight of the fact that if one does not expect con­ven­tion­al sounds, his music is often very well con­struct­ed. Here, for exam­ple, the com­pos­er weaves a hyp­not­i­cal­ly com­pelling pat­tern of rhyth­mic ten­sion and relax­ation, akin to cer­tain non-West­ern music, which is very appro­pri­ate for Joyce’s moody prose.

Cage’s own instruc­tions “for the singer” state: “sing with­out vibra­to, as in folk-singing. Make any trans­po­si­tion nec­es­sary in order to employ a low and com­fort­able range.”

This flex­i­ble arrange­ment allows any­one to pick up the piece, and so we have, direct­ly below, an unlike­ly inter­preter of Cage’s exper­i­men­tal art, the late Ramones singer Joey Ramone. Ramone’s inter­pre­ta­tion of the piece is enthralling sim­ply as a piece of record­ed music.  But it’s also a fas­ci­nat­ing piece of cul­tur­al his­to­ry, rep­re­sent­ing a con­flu­ence of the fore­most fig­ures in ear­ly twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry mod­ernist lit­er­a­ture, mid-cen­tu­ry avant-garde music, and late cen­tu­ry punk rock.

The record­ing comes from a whole album of Cage inter­pre­ta­tions by New York punk and new- and no-wave art-rock­ers, includ­ing David Byrne, Arto Lind­say, John Zorn, Deb­bie Har­ry, and Lou Reed. The album, enti­tled Caged/Uncaged—A Rock/Experimental Homage to John Cage, was record­ed in Italy in 1993 and pro­duced by John Cale. You can lis­ten to tracks at Ubuweb.

It’s more than just a trib­ute record; it’s a seri­ous engage­ment with the music of a com­pos­er whose work—like the flu­id prose-poet­ry of Finnegans Wake—seems infi­nite­ly mal­leable and adapt­able to the present. Forty years after com­pos­ing the song Joey Ramone per­forms, Cage said, “we live, in a very deep sense, in the time of Finnegans Wake.” Per­haps we still live in the time of Joyce, and also of John Cage.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

James Joyce Reads From Ulysses and Finnegans Wake In His Only Two Record­ings (1924/1929)

Hear a Read­ing of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake Set to Music: Fea­tures 100+ Musi­cians and Read­ers from Across the World

James Joyce’s Cray­on Cov­ered Man­u­script Pages for Ulysses and Finnegans Wake

Hear All of Finnegans Wake Read Aloud: A 35 Hour Read­ing

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

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Yuval Noah Harari Explains How to Protect Your Mind in the Age of AI

You could say that we live in the age of arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence, although it feels truer about no aspect of our lives than it does of adver­tis­ing. “If you want to sell some­thing to peo­ple today, you call it AI,” says Yuval Noah Harari in the new Big Think video above, even if the prod­uct has only the vaguest tech­no­log­i­cal asso­ci­a­tion with that label. To deter­mine whether some­thing should actu­al­ly be called arti­fi­cial­ly intel­li­gent, ask whether it can “learn and change by itself and come up with deci­sions and ideas that we don’t antic­i­pate,” indeed can’t antic­i­pate. That AI-enabled waf­fle iron being pitched to you prob­a­bly does­n’t make the cut, but you may already be inter­act­ing with numer­ous sys­tems that do.

As the author of the glob­al best­seller Sapi­ens and oth­er books con­cerned with the long arc of human civ­i­liza­tion, Harari has giv­en a good deal of thought to how tech­nol­o­gy and soci­ety inter­act. “In the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, the rise of mass media and mass infor­ma­tion tech­nol­o­gy, like the tele­graph and radio and tele­vi­sion” formed “the basis for large-scale demo­c­ra­t­ic sys­tems,” but also for “large-scale total­i­tar­i­an sys­tems.”

Unlike in the ancient world, gov­ern­ments could at least begin to “micro­man­age the social and eco­nom­ic and cul­tur­al lives of every indi­vid­ual in the coun­try.” Even the vast sur­veil­lance appa­ra­tus and bureau­cra­cy of the Sovi­et Union “could not sur­veil every­body all the time.” Alas, Harari antic­i­pates, things will be dif­fer­ent in the AI age.

Human-oper­at­ed organ­ic net­works are being dis­placed by AI-oper­at­ed inor­gan­ic ones, which “are always on, and there­fore they might force us to be always on, always being watched, always being mon­i­tored.” As they gain dom­i­nance, “the whole of life is becom­ing like one long job inter­view.” At the same time, even if you were already feel­ing inun­dat­ed by infor­ma­tion before, you’ve more than like­ly felt the waters rise around you due to the infi­nite pro­duc­tion capac­i­ties of AI. One indi­vid­ual-lev­el strat­e­gy Harari rec­om­mends to coun­ter­act the flood is going on an “infor­ma­tion diet,” restrict­ing the flow of that “food of the mind,” which only some­times has any­thing to do with the truth. If we binge on “all this junk infor­ma­tion, full of greed and hate and fear, we will have sick minds; per­haps a peri­od of absti­nence can restore a cer­tain degree of men­tal health. You might con­sid­er spend­ing the rest of the day tak­ing in as lit­tle new infor­ma­tion as pos­si­ble — just as soon as you fin­ish catch­ing up on Open Cul­ture, of course.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Sci-Fi Writer Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dict­ed the Rise of Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence & the Exis­ten­tial Ques­tions We Would Need to Answer (1978)

Will Machines Ever Tru­ly Think? Richard Feyn­man Con­tem­plates the Future of Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence (1985)

Isaac Asi­mov Describes How Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence Will Lib­er­ate Humans & Their Cre­ativ­i­ty: Watch His Last Major Inter­view (1992)

How Will AI Change the World?: A Cap­ti­vat­ing Ani­ma­tion Explores the Promise & Per­ils of Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence

Stephen Fry Explains Why Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence Has a “70% Risk of Killing Us All”

Yuval Noah Harari and Fareed Zakaria Break Down What’s Hap­pen­ing in the Mid­dle East

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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Watch Joan Baez Endearingly Imitate Bob Dylan (1972)

Joan Baez was already her­ald­ed as the “Queen of Folk” by the time Robert Zim­mer­man aka Bob Dylan arrived in New York City. Many things brought him to the bur­geon­ing folk scene there, but Baez was the siren who called to a young Dylan through his tele­vi­sion set long before he met her. He was smit­ten. He would write much lat­er in Chron­i­cles, Vol. 1, that she had “A voice that drove out bad spir­its… she sang in a voice straight to God… Noth­ing she did didn’t work.”

And for a cou­ple of years they became col­lab­o­ra­tors, part­ners, lovers, and folk roy­al­ty. It was Baez who intro­duced a then-unknown Dylan to the crowds at the 1963 New­port Folk Fes­ti­val. But soon, for­tunes changed: Dylan became an unstop­pable cul­tur­al force and Baez would be on the receiv­ing end of sev­er­al betray­als, artis­tic and oth­er­wise.

An excerpt from an Earl Scrug­gs doc­u­men­tary, the cute video above, shot by David Hoff­man and post­ed on his YouTube chan­nel, shows Baez imi­tat­ing Dylan after she sings a verse of “It Ain’t Me Babe”. (She does this while hold­ing her baby and try­ing to get it to drink from a pitch­er, too.) A 16-year-old Ricky Skaggs—not look­ing any­thing like a teenager—accompanies her on gui­tar.

For one thing she does a crackin’ good Dylan impres­sion. The oth­er is watch­ing the emo­tion behind that impression—there’s a lot of his­to­ry there, a bit of sad­ness, a bit of nos­tal­gia, noth­ing bit­ter or mean, but evi­dence of a shared life togeth­er that once exist­ed.

By this time in 1972, Dylan’s voice had matured. The croon­er on Nashville Sky­line was a dif­fer­ent per­son from the man on Blonde on Blonde, all those rough cor­ners sand­ed off and the reg­is­ter deep­ened. Yet when any­one imi­tates Dylan, they head on back to those mid-‘60s albums, the “bray­ing beat­nik” as writer Rob Jones calls him. (Jones posits that Dylan has had eight par­tic­u­lar voic­es dur­ing his career.)

Remem­ber, as Slate’s Carl Wil­son points out, when Dylan first start­ed out, he was com­mend­ed for his voice, and was con­sid­ered  “one of the most com­pelling white blues singers ever record­ed,” by Robert Shel­ton, who wrote the copy on the back cov­er of Dylan’s 1962 debut album. He came from a tra­di­tion of both Woody Guthrie and Howl­in’ Wolf, and sev­er­al oth­er idio­syn­crat­ic singers who didn’t sound like Frank Sina­tra. (Although Dylan’s last few projects have been cov­ers from the Great Amer­i­can Song­book.)

Dylan him­self, in a 2015 award accep­tance speech, turned his ire towards crit­ics of his voice:

Crit­ics have been giv­ing me a hard time since Day One. Crit­ics say I can’t sing. I croak. Sound like a frog. Why don’t crit­ics say that same thing about Tom Waits? Crit­ics say my voice is shot. That I have no voice. [Why] don’t they say those things about Leonard Cohen? Why do I get spe­cial treat­ment? Crit­ics say I can’t car­ry a tune and I talk my way through a song. Real­ly? I’ve nev­er heard that said about Lou Reed. Why does he get to go scot-free? … Slur my words, got no dic­tion. Have you peo­ple ever lis­tened to Charley Pat­ton or Robert John­son, Mud­dy Waters? … “Why me, Lord?” I would say that to myself.

Fast for­ward to the present and Dylan’s voice shows the wear of years of per­form­ing and years of indul­gence. It’s grav­el­ly and phleg­mat­ic, smoky and whiskey-soaked, but Wil­son points out: “Even the rasp and burr of his late voice, sev­er­al keen lis­ten­ers have noticed, is very much like a more gen­uine copy of the old-blues­man tim­bre he pre­ten­tious­ly affect­ed as a young man. It’s almost like this is what he’s been aim­ing toward.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2018.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Com­pare the “It Ain’t Me Babe” Scene from A Com­plete Unknown to the Real Bob Dylan & Joan Baez Per­for­mance at the New­port Folk Fes­ti­val

Joan Baez Live in 1965: Full Con­cert

Bob Dylan Explains Why Music Has Been Get­ting Worse

17-Year-Old Joan Baez Per­forms at Famous “Club 47” in Cam­bridge, MA (1958)

Bob Dylan’s Famous Tele­vised Press Con­fer­ence After He Went Elec­tric (1965)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts.

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What Is Kabbalah? An Introduction to the Jewish Mystical Tradition

Though the pop-cul­tur­al moment that gave rise to the asso­ci­a­tion has passed, when many of us hear about Kab­bal­ah, we still think of Madon­na. Her study of that Jew­ish-mys­tic school of thought in the nine­teen-nineties has been cred­it­ed, at least in part, with the son­ic trans­for­ma­tion that led to her hit album Ray of Light.  A few years lat­er, when she record­ed the theme song for the 2002 James Bond movie Die Anoth­er Day, she man­aged to include in its music video such Kab­bal­is­tic imagery as the Hebrew let­ters lamed, aleph, and vav — which come, as Reli­gion for Break­fast cre­ator Andrew M. Hen­ry says in the video above, from one of the 72 names of God accord­ing to Jew­ish tra­di­tion.

But what, exact­ly, is Kab­bal­ah? That’s the ques­tion Hen­ry takes it upon him­self to answer, attempt­ing to sep­a­rate the real thing from the pop-cul­tur­al ephemera that’s come to sur­round it.

This entails first going back to the ear­li­est Kab­bal­ists, “Jew­ish teach­ers, the­olo­gians, and philoso­phers” among “the edu­cat­ed elite of medieval Europe, liv­ing in Spain and France, writ­ing new and inno­v­a­tive stud­ies on Jew­ish texts and con­cepts about mys­ti­cal con­tem­pla­tion of the divine realms, the nature of God, the pur­pose of human­i­ty, and the cre­ation of the uni­verse.” They searched, and their suc­ces­sors have con­tin­ued to search, for secret divine wis­dom orig­i­nal­ly vouch­safed to Moses at Mount Sinai.

The word kab­bal­ah can be trans­lat­ed as “that which has been received,” but that may make the enter­prise sound sim­pler than it is. Hen­ry frames Kab­bal­ah as a series of tra­di­tions “encom­pass­ing sev­er­al modes of read­ing, a library of texts, a series of con­cepts, and a range of prac­tices with­in Judaism that is con­cerned with mys­ti­cal con­tem­pla­tion.” But what­ev­er their dif­fer­ences, most Kab­bal­ists revere con­cepts like Ein Sof, “an infi­nite imper­son­al god or supreme enti­ty or supreme enti­ty that we can­not describe with our own human fac­ul­ties,” and vast works like the nov­el­is­tic Zohar, or “The Book of Radi­ance,” in which “even the search for mys­ti­cal knowl­edge becomes sex­u­al­ized”: an aspect that, giv­en the skill with which she’s craft­ed her provoca­tive pop-icon image, Madon­na could hard­ly fail to appre­ci­ate.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Tal­mud Is Final­ly Now Avail­able Online

Wal­ter Benjamin’s Philo­soph­i­cal Thought Pre­sent­ed by Two Exper­i­men­tal Films

The Ancient Greeks Who Con­vert­ed to Bud­dhism

The Ark Before Noah: Dis­cov­er the Ancient Flood Myths That Came Before the Bible

2,000-Year-Old Man­u­script of the Ten Com­mand­ments Gets Dig­i­tized: See/Download the “Nash Papyrus” in High Res­o­lu­tion

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

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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The Only Time Prince & Miles Davis Jammed Together Onstage: Watch the New Year’s Eve, 1987 Concert

A too-pre­cious genre of inter­net meme depicts depart­ed pub­lic fig­ures who did not know each oth­er in life meet­ing in heav­en with hugs, high-fives, and winc­ing­ly earnest exchanges. These sen­ti­men­tal vignettes are almost too easy to par­o­dy, a kitschy ver­sion of the “what if” game, as in: what if two cre­ative genius­es could col­lab­o­rate in ways they nev­er did before they died?

What if John Lennon had formed a band with Eric Clap­ton—as Lennon him­self had once pro­posed? Or what if a Jimi Hendrix/Miles Davis col­lab­o­ra­tion had come off, as Hen­drix envi­sioned the year before his death? More than just fan­ta­sy base­ball, the exer­cise lets us spec­u­late about how musi­cians who influ­enced each oth­er might evolve if giv­en the chance to jam indef­i­nite­ly.

When it comes to Miles, there are few who haven’t been influ­enced by the jazz great, whether they know it or not. Prince Rogers Nel­son knew it well. The son of a jazz pianist, Prince grew up with Miles’ music. Although he “grav­i­tat­ed to the worlds of rock, pop, and R&B,” writes pianist Ron Dro­tos, Prince “seems to have seen jazz as a way to express him­self in a broad­er way than he could through more com­mer­cial styles alone.”

Prince was so inter­est­ed in explor­ing jazz—and Davis’ par­tic­u­lar form of jazz—in the 80s that he formed a band anony­mous­ly, called Mad­house (actu­al­ly just him and horn play­er Eric Leeds), and released two albums of fusion instru­men­tals. The influ­ence went both ways. “Miles con­sid­ered Prince to have the poten­tial to become anoth­er Duke Elling­ton and even mod­eled his own 1980s music part­ly on Prince’s style,” with 1986’s Tutu stand­ing out as an exam­ple. What if the two musi­cians had worked togeth­er? Can you imag­ine it?

They did not—to our knowl­edge, although Prince’s vault is vast—collaborate on an album, but they did cre­ate one stu­dio track togeth­er, “Can I Play With U?” And the two vir­tu­oso com­posers and musi­cians jammed togeth­er onstage, once, at Pais­ley Park, on New Year’s Eve, 1987. The con­cert was a ben­e­fit for the Min­neso­ta Coali­tion for the Home­less and the last time Prince per­formed the Sign O’ the Times stage show. At the tail end of the con­cert, Davis steps onstage for “an ice-cold appear­ance,” Okay­play­er notes. “As a com­pan­ion to the release of a deluxe edi­tion” of the album, “the late icon’s estate has relin­quished the full two-hour-plus set.”

Watch the con­cert at the top (trust me, don’t just skip ahead to see Davis at 1:43:50). Just above, you can see an hour­long “pre-show” taped with Maya Rudolph, “life­long Prince devo­tee,” Emmy-win­ning come­di­an, and daugh­ter of Min­nie Riper­ton. Oth­er guests include Prince’s long­time side­man and col­lab­o­ra­tor on his jazz project, Eric Leeds. “If you’re here, then you’re cool, like me,” Rudolph jokes, “and you know a lot about Prince.” Or maybe you don’t. Let Rudolph and her guests fill you in, and imag­ine Prince and Davis mak­ing celes­tial jazz-funk for­ev­er, between high-fives, in the Great Beyond.

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:

In 1969 Telegram, Jimi Hen­drix Invites Paul McCart­ney to Join a Super Group with Miles Davis

John Lennon Writes Eric Clap­ton an 8‑Page Let­ter Ask­ing Him to Join the Plas­tic Ono Band for a World Tour on a Cruise Ship

When Miles Davis Dis­cov­ered and Then Chan­neled the Musi­cal Spir­it of Jimi Hen­drix

The Night When Miles Davis Opened for the Grate­ful Dead (1970)

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

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