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Dan Ariely’s Animated Talk Reveals How and Why We’re All Dishonest

If it is the bulk of the world’s cheat­ing, steal­ing, and decep­tion you seek, says Duke pro­fes­sor of psy­chol­o­gy and behav­ioral eco­nom­ics Dan Ariely, look not to the heinous acts of indi­vid­ual vil­lains; look to the count­less dis­hon­est acts com­mit­ted dai­ly by the rest of human­i­ty. “The mag­ni­tude of dis­hon­esty we see in soci­ety is by good peo­ple who think they’re being good but are in fact cheat­ing just a lit­tle bit,” so we learn in the lec­ture above (find the com­plete lec­ture here). Ariely speaks these words, but they also appear writ­ten onscreen by a pen-wield­ing hand that rapid­ly sum­ma­rizes and (lit­er­al­ly) illus­trates Ariely’s points as he makes them. This unusu­al style of ani­ma­tion appears in a whole series of videos from the Roy­al Soci­ety for the Encour­age­ment of Arts, Man­u­fac­tures and Com­merce called RSA Ani­mate. These have, the RSA claims, “rev­o­lu­tionised the field of knowl­edge visu­al­i­sa­tion whilst spread­ing the most impor­tant ideas of our time.” Rev­o­lu­tion­ary or not, The Truth About Dis­hon­esty makes, in under twelve min­utes, the kind of obser­va­tions that let you see real­i­ty just a lit­tle more clear­ly.

“Human beings basi­cal­ly try to do two things at the same time,” Ariely says and the hand writes. “On one hand, we want to be able to look in the mir­ror and feel good about our­selves. On the oth­er hand, we want to ben­e­fit from dis­hon­esty.” This dilem­ma would seem to allow no com­pro­mise — you’re either hon­est or you’re dis­hon­est, right? — but Ariely finds that most of us instinc­tive­ly strive for the gray area between: “Thanks to our flex­i­ble cog­ni­tive psy­chol­o­gy and our abil­i­ty to ratio­nal­ize our actions, we could do both.” We then hear and see how, if the prop­er ratio­nal­iza­tion hap­pens and the instances of cheat­ing remain minor and dis­tanced from their effects, every­body acts with a mix­ture of hon­esty and dis­hon­esty. (But some­times the “what the hell effect” — the lec­ture’s finest coinage — kicks in, where peo­ple tem­porar­i­ly stop con­sid­er­ing them­selves good and pro­ceed to act freely.) Ariely brings up the exam­ple, ripped from the head­lines, of bankers and hedge fund man­agers who, dis­tanced by vast cor­po­rate struc­tures and elab­o­rate math­e­mat­ics from those whom their actions con­cret­ly affect. The hand draws a car­i­ca­ture of Oscar Wilde, then writes the most appro­pri­ate quote beside it: “Moral­i­ty, like art, means draw­ing a line some­place.”

via Brain Pick­ings

More RSA Talks:

Rena­ta Sale­cl: The Para­dox of Choice

Sir Ken Robin­son: A Cre­ative Edu­ca­tion

Good Cap­i­tal­ist Kar­ma: Zizek Ani­mat­ed

Smile or Die: The Per­ils of Pos­i­tive Psy­chol­o­gy

Steven Pinker: How Innu­en­do Makes Things Work

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood Join Forces at the Historic Blind Faith Concert in Hyde Park, 1969

On a swel­ter­ing sum­mer day in 1969, over 100,000 peo­ple crammed into Hyde Park in cen­tral Lon­don for a first look at what promised to be the next great thing in rock and roll: Blind Faith.

It was an amaz­ing line­up. The band was made up of two-thirds of Cream (gui­tarist Eric Clap­ton and drum­mer Gin­ger Bak­er) along with the front­man of Traf­fic (key­boardist and vocal­ist Steve Win­wood) and the bassist from the pro­gres­sive group Fam­i­ly (Ric Grech). The free con­cert on June 7, 1969 (see here) was pro­mot­ed with a great deal of fan­fare and hyper­bole. Expec­ta­tions were high, so per­haps dis­ap­point­ment was inevitable. In any case the band came off sound­ing hes­i­tant and unsteady. For a “super­group,” they seemed sur­pris­ing­ly unsure of them­selves.

“It was our first gig,” Win­wood said lat­er, “and to do that in front of 100,000 peo­ple was not the best sit­u­a­tion to be in. Nerves were show­ing and it was very daunt­ing. We could­n’t relax like you can on tour.” The band showed none of the verve or audac­i­ty of Cream.  Clap­ton stood behind the drums and seemed reluc­tant to let loose. “In rehearsals and dur­ing record­ing,” said Bak­er, “Eric had been doing amaz­ing stuff, but in Hyde Park I kept won­der­ing when he was going to start play­ing. It was­n’t a bril­liant start, obvi­ous­ly.”

The band avoid­ed play­ing any­thing by Cream. The set list includ­ed one Traf­fic song (“Means to an End”) and anoth­er by the Rolling Stones (“Under My Thumb”), but was oth­er­wise made up entire­ly of orig­i­nal songs writ­ten for their yet-to-be-released album, Blind Faith:

  1. Well All Right
  2. Sea of Joy
  3. Sleep­ing in the Ground
  4. Under My Thumb
  5. Can’t Find My Way Home
  6. Do What You Like
  7. Pres­ence of the Lord
  8. Means to an End
  9. Had to Cry Today

Lat­er that year the band toured Scan­di­navia and Amer­i­ca, and their debut album was a com­mer­cial suc­cess despite con­sid­er­able con­tro­ver­sy over its strange cov­er image of a top­less pubes­cent-look­ing girl hold­ing a toy air­plane. But it was clear from the start that Blind Faith would­n’t last. Clap­ton’s heart, in par­tic­u­lar, was­n’t into it. “I’d left The Yard­birds because of suc­cess,” he said lat­er, “and Cream end­ed as a direct result of its false suc­cess. So with Blind Faith I want­ed no more to do with suc­cess. I want­ed to be accept­ed as a musi­cian.” At the end of Blind Faith’s Amer­i­can tour Clap­ton made the unusu­al career move of quit­ting a super­group to become a side­man for its sup­port­ing act, the rel­a­tive­ly obscure Delaney & Bon­nie. In a 1996 Mojo arti­cle on Blind Faith called “Born Under a Bad Sign,” rock jour­nal­ist John­ny Black sums things up:

In ret­ro­spect, Blind Faith was cursed almost from the out­set. This was a band whose mem­bers rarely seemed to tell each oth­er any­thing. A band at log­ger­heads with its man­age­ment. A man­age­ment at log­ger­heads with itself. A hero­in addict­ed drum­mer. A gui­tarist who want­ed out almost from the word go. A sta­di­um tour that the key­board play­er did­n’t want to be on. A record cov­er scan­dal. Worst of all, though, they were mind-numb­ing­ly suc­cess­ful when they did­n’t want to be.

Relat­ed con­tent: 

A Young Eric Clap­ton Demon­strates the Ele­ments of His Sound

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The Moby Dick Big Read: Tilda Swinton & Others Read a Chapter a Day from the Great American Novel

“Moby-Dick is the great Amer­i­can nov­el. But it is also the great unread Amer­i­can nov­el. Sprawl­ing, mag­nif­i­cent, deliri­ous­ly digres­sive, it stands over and above all oth­er works of fic­tion, since it is bare­ly a work of fic­tion itself. Rather, it is an explo­sive expo­si­tion of one man’s inves­ti­ga­tion into the world of the whale, and the way humans have relat­ed to it. Yet it is so much more than that.”

That’s how Ply­mouth Uni­ver­si­ty intro­duces Her­man Melville’s clas­sic tale from 1851. And it’s what sets the stage for their web project launched ear­li­er this week. It’s called The Moby Dick Big Read, and it fea­tures celebri­ties and less­er known fig­ures read­ing all 135 chap­ters from Moby Dick — chap­ters that you can start down­load­ing (as free audio files) on a rolling, dai­ly basis. Find them on iTunes, Sound­cloud, RSS Feed, or the Big Read web site itself.

The project start­ed with the first chap­ters being read by Til­da Swin­ton (Chap­ter 1), Cap­tain R.N. Hone (Chap­ter 2), Nigel Williams (Chap­ter 3), Caleb Crain (Chap­ter 4), Musa Okwon­ga (Chap­ter 5), and Mary Nor­ris (Chap­ter 6). John Waters, Stephen Fry, Simon Cal­low and even Prime Min­is­ter David Cameron will read future chap­ters, which often find them­selves accom­pa­nied by con­tem­po­rary art­work inspired by the nov­el.

If you want to read the nov­el as you go along, find the text in our col­lec­tion of Free eBooks. We also have ver­sions read by one nar­ra­tor in our Free Audio Books col­lec­tion. Til­da Swin­ton’s nar­ra­tion of Chap­ter 1 appears right below:

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An Annotated Charlie Chaplin Filmography — 82 Films with Links to Videos

Last year we pub­lished a handy list of 20 Free Char­lie Chap­lin Films Avail­able Online. And it looked pret­ty good … until yes­ter­day. That’s when Metafil­ter post­ed an Anno­tat­ed Fil­mog­ra­phy of Char­lie Chap­lin fea­tur­ing a list of Chap­lin’s 82 “offi­cial short and fea­ture films in chrono­log­i­cal order … with links to where you can watch them [online].” Above, we’ll start you off above with a short Char­lie Chap­lin Film Fes­ti­val which includes four works in one col­lec­tion — The Adven­tur­er, The Cure, Easy Street and The Immi­grant.

For a broad­er selec­tion of films, don’t miss our meta list of 700 Free Movies Online, where you’ll find great Hitch­cock films and noir clas­sics; West­ern films, includ­ing many with John Wayne; ani­mat­ed gems; doc­u­men­taries and much more. Or, if you want to nar­row down your list, check out our list of 33 Free Oscar-Win­ning Films on the Web.

Fol­low us on Face­book, Twit­ter and now Google Plus.

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Thomas Edison’s Boxing Cats (1894), or Where the LOLCats All Began

I’m will­ing to bet a lot of some­one else’s mon­ey that there are thou­sands more lol­cat lovers than cat lovers in the world. Since I hap­pen to be unashamed­ly both, I was suck­ered by the lit­tle 1894 film above from Thomas Edison’s Black Maria stu­dios fea­tur­ing “Pro­fes­sor Welton’s Box­ing Cats.” Now, grant­ed, there is no dis­claimer telling us no ani­mals were harmed, but it looks to me like good clean cat-box­ing fun. As the Smith­son­ian page that post­ed this lit­tle gem declares, Edi­son is per­haps the “mogul who start­ed lol­cats.”

Edi­son is giv­en cred­it for invent­ing a lot of things, many of which he sim­ply appro­pri­at­ed, made his own, and mar­ket­ed heav­i­ly. In this way, he exem­pli­fies a par­tic­u­lar brand of Amer­i­can entre­pre­neur skilled not so much in mak­ing things as in patent­ing them. The so-called “Wiz­ard of Men­lo Park” patent­ed 1,093 inven­tions, among them his motion pic­ture cam­era, or “kine­to­graph.” But as the Library of Con­gress reports, it is like­ly that Edison’s awk­ward­ly-named assis­tant William Kennedy Lau­rie Dick­son did the actu­al work of turn­ing Edis­on’s con­cept (which he took from Ead­weard Muy­bridge) into a real­i­ty.

Com­plex­i­ties of due cred­it aside, we can at least thank Edi­son for man­ag­ing an effi­cient oper­a­tion and also, for bet­ter or worse, pio­neer­ing lit­i­ga­tion against his com­peti­tors (putting many of them out of busi­ness). His Black Maria Stu­dios amassed quite an archive of ear­ly “actu­al­i­ty” films and silent fic­tion­al films of the Nick­elodeon era, the most famous of which, The Great Train Rob­bery, you can watch below (with dubbed-in score).

The Library of Congress’s Edi­son page is an excel­lent resource for infor­ma­tion on the his­to­ry of film in gen­er­al and Edison’s con­tri­bu­tions in par­tic­u­lar, and it fea­tures dozens of his short films avail­able for down­load in Real­Me­dia, Quick Time, or as MPEGs.

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

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Always the Director: Martin Scorsese Spoofs Himself in Two Commercials

Over the years, Mar­tin Scors­ese has earned a rep­u­ta­tion as a con­sum­mate film­mak­er, an obses­sive per­fec­tion­ist who lives and breathes cin­e­ma. In these two com­mer­cials the famed direc­tor moves to the front of the cam­era to make fun of his own man­ic per­fec­tion­ism.

In 2003 Scors­ese was asked to play him­self in a com­mer­cial for Amer­i­can Express (see above), which was one of the spon­sors of the Tribeca Film Fes­ti­val. In keep­ing with his rep­u­ta­tion for fas­tid­i­ous­ness, Scors­ese demand­ed to see a resume and show reel from vet­er­an com­mer­cial direc­tor Jim Jenk­ins before agree­ing to the shoot. “It’s like Kobe Bryant ask­ing for your bas­ket­ball cre­den­tials,” Jenk­ins told Ste­fano Hat­field at Adver­tis­ing Age. “What are you gonna say? I once direct­ed Tonya Hard­ing in a Fox Sports com­mer­cial?”

Scors­ese appar­ent­ly liked what he saw, because Jenk­ins was hired. The shoot took place in a Los Ange­les drug­store dur­ing a sin­gle day. “The main chal­lenge,” wrote Hat­field in his arti­cle, “was to get Mr. Scors­ese to speak as quick­ly as we all think he does. He actu­al­ly had to be coaxed into that machine-gun deliv­ery we have all come to expect of him. While it is entire­ly cred­i­ble that this per­fec­tion­ist would have his nephew stage a par­ty all over again for a bet­ter shoot, Mr. Scors­ese admit­ted that he had­n’t actu­al­ly col­lect­ed a roll of film from a drug­store for 15 years.”

Jenk­ins and Scors­ese teamed up again for a 2008 AT&T com­mer­cial that was shown in the­aters to encour­age movie-goers to silence their phones. It shows Scors­ese barg­ing into the home of a moth­er and her young son and pro­ceed­ing to direct a pri­vate phone call.  The mes­sage: “We won’t inter­rupt your phone calls. Please don’t inter­rupt our movies.” Scors­ese was orig­i­nal­ly expect­ed to direct the com­mer­cial, accord­ing to Jenk­ins, but decid­ed just to act in it. “Obvi­ous­ly he’s a nat­ur­al actor,” Jenk­ins said of Scors­ese in an inter­view with Cre­ativ­i­ty-online. “But he was ner­vous. He just want­ed it to be fun­ny. He said, ‘I can’t know if it’s fun­ny. Just make it fun­ny.’ ”

You can watch the com­mer­cial below to decide for your­self whether it’s fun­ny. And be sure to come back tomor­row, when we fea­ture an imag­i­na­tive com­mer­cial direct­ed by Scors­ese him­self.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Mar­tin Scors­ese’s Very First Films: Three Imag­i­na­tive Short Works

Mar­tin Scors­ese Appears in New Apple Ad, Plays on His Chill­ing Cameo in Taxi Dri­ver

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Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol Demystify Their Pop Art in Vintage 1966 Film

By the mid-six­ties, Roy Licht­en­stein and Andy Warhol had come to define a cer­tain cur­rent of process-inten­sive, only super­fi­cial­ly sim­ple Amer­i­can visu­al art. Licht­en­stein cre­at­ed his work using process­es and mate­ri­als devel­oped for tra­di­tion­al com­mer­cial pro­duc­tion; Warhol devel­oped meth­ods for pro­duc­ing his work as if they were tra­di­tion­al com­mer­cial prod­ucts. This half-hour doc­u­men­tary cap­tures both artists in 1966, dis­cussing their meth­ods in inter­views and exe­cut­ing them in their stu­dios. Licht­en­stein speaks clear­ly and in great detail about how he finds the Amer­i­can land­scape “made up of the desire to sell prod­ucts,” how he decid­ed to por­tray in his paint­ings “an anti-sen­si­bil­i­ty that per­vades the soci­ety” with­in a “struc­ture of half-tone dots and flat print­ed areas,” and his dri­ving notion that “what­ev­er approach one uses, he ought to go as far as he can with it, in order to make as much impact as pos­si­ble.”

Warhol, though, as jour­nal­ists who encoun­tered him will winc­ing­ly remem­ber, was­n’t much for inter­views. Or rather, he grant­ed inter­views, but respond­ed most­ly in ways that rein­forced his per­sona of unknowa­bil­i­ty — indeed, of con­tain­ing noth­ing to be known. “Andy Warhol’s ret­i­cence about him­self masks a unique sen­si­bil­i­ty,” reads the nar­ra­tor. That’s one way of putting it. Here he tells his inter­view­er, who main­tains an admirable equa­nim­i­ty through­out, how nice it would be if he could just be told what sen­tences to answer with, and then repeat them. Yet behind his opaque-look­ing sun­glass­es and inter­cut with footage of his var­i­ous projects, Warhol reveals things, and inter­est­ing ones, about the whats, hows, and whys of his grand enter­prise. He even revealed a detail about his imme­di­ate plans to which audi­ences of 1966 would’ve done par­tic­u­lar­ly well to pay atten­tion: “We’re spon­sor­ing a new band. It’s called the Vel­vet Under­ground.”

Andy Warhol and Roy Licht­en­stein will be added to our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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How Leo Tolstoy Learned to Ride a Bike at 67, and Other Tales of Lifelong Learning

Some say you’re nev­er too old to learn some­thing new. Oth­ers say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Well, you know where we come down on this. And we’ve got some celebri­ty case stud­ies to back us up. In a blog post yes­ter­day, The New York Times fea­tured four cul­tur­al icons and one war hero who learned new skills lat­er in life. Miles Davis start­ed box­ing when most box­ers are hang­ing up their gloves. Ayn Rand, in her 60s, improb­a­bly took up the hob­by of stamp col­lect­ing. Marie Curie learned to swim in her 50s. And the great nov­el­ist Leo Tol­stoy took his first bike ride at the age of 67. The Times writes that he start­ed cycling:

only a month after the death of his 7‑year-old son, Vanich­ka. He was still griev­ing, and the Moscow Soci­ety of Veloci­pede-Lovers pro­vid­ed him a free bike and instruc­tion along the gar­den paths on his estate. He became a devo­tee, tak­ing rides after his morn­ing chores. “Count Leo Tol­stoy … now rides the wheel,” declared Sci­en­tif­ic Amer­i­can in 1896, “much to the aston­ish­ment of the peas­ants on his estate.”

Appar­ent­ly that’s Tol­stoy and his bike above.

via @kirstinbutler

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Last Days of Leo Tol­stoy Cap­tured on Video

Rare Record­ing: Leo Tol­stoy Reads From His Last Major Work in Four Lan­guages, 1909

The Art of Leo Tol­stoy: See His Draw­ings in the War & Peace Man­u­script & Oth­er Lit­er­ary Texts

 

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Empire State of Pen: Patrick Vale’s Epic Freehand Drawing of the Manhattan Skyline

Give UK artist Patrick Vale 80 sec­onds, and he’ll show you his free­hand draw­ing of New York City unfold in rapid-fire motion. Vale plant­ed him­self on the 102nd floor of the Empire State Build­ing, looked out­side his win­dow, and began draw­ing, with his iPhone duct taped to a ros­trum and record­ing the action. From start to fin­ish, the draw­ing took, he says in a Huff­Po inter­view, four to five days. He calls the draw­ing of the Man­hat­tan sky­line “Empire State of Pen.” The great Charles Min­gus pro­vides the sound­track.

via Metafil­ter

Fol­low us on Face­book, Twit­ter and now Google Plus and share intel­li­gent media with your friends. You won’t be sor­ry!

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Classic Ray Charles Performance: ‘What’d I Say’ Live in Paris, 1968

Late one night in 1958, Ray Charles and his band were near­ing the end of a very long per­for­mance at a dance some­where in the Mid­west when they found them­selves in a jam. They were out of mate­r­i­al. What Charles came up with that night to kill a lit­tle time would wind up mak­ing music his­to­ry.

In his mem­oir Broth­er Ray: Ray Charles’ Own Sto­ry, co-writ­ten with David Ritz, Charles describes the scene:

It was near­ly 1:00 A.M., I remem­ber, and we had played our whole book. There was noth­ing left that I could think of, so I final­ly said to the band and the Raeletts, “Lis­ten, I’m going to fool around and y’all just fol­low me.”

So I began noodling. Just a lit­tle riff which float­ed up into my head. It felt good and I kept on going. One thing led to anoth­er, and sud­den­ly I found myself singing and want­i­ng the girls to repeat after me. So I told ’em, “Now!”

Then I could feel the whole room bounc­ing and shak­ing and car­ry­ing on some­thing fierce. So I kept the thing going, tight­en­ing it up a lit­tle here, adding a dash of Latin rhythm there. When I got through, folk came up and asked where they could buy the record. “Ain’t no record,” I said, “just some­thing I made up to kill a lit­tle time.”

The song, “What’d I Say,” became a hit not only on the rhythm and blues charts, where Charles had already had some suc­cess, but on the pop charts as well. It was Charles’s first cross-over hit, and his first gold record. It was wide­ly cov­ered by oth­er artists and became Charles’s sig­na­ture song, the one he end­ed his con­certs with.

The video above was made almost exact­ly ten years after “What’d I Say” was writ­ten. It’s from one of a pair of con­certs Charles gave on Octo­ber 8 and 9, 1968, at the Salle Pleyel in Paris. The orches­tra was led by Wal­lace Dav­en­port, and the back-up singers, the Raeletts, were: Susaye Greene, Ver­lyn Fle­naugh, Bar­bara Ann Lesure, and Bar­bara Nell Ter­rault.

Despite the even­tu­al tri­umph of “What’d I Say,” the song encoun­tered strong resis­tance when it was first released by Atlantic Records in 1959. Some radio sta­tions banned it. “They said it was sug­ges­tive,” writes Charles. “Well, I agreed. I’m not one to inter­pret my own songs, but if you can’t fig­ure out ‘What I Say,’ then some­thing’s wrong. Either that, or you’re not accus­tomed to the sweet sounds of love.”

Relat­ed con­tent:

‘Willie and the Hand Jive,’ by the Late Great John­ny Otis

The Queen of Soul Con­quers Europe: Aretha Franklin in Ams­ter­dam, 1968

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