The World’s Most Famous Organ Piece Played on the World’s Largest Fully Operational Pipe Organ

The world’s most famous organ piece, played on the world’s largest ful­ly func­tion­ing pipe organ. That’s what you have above. Here, organ­ist Dylan David Shaw per­forms Bach’s Toc­ca­ta and Fugue in D minor on the famous Wana­mak­er organ.

Orig­i­nal­ly built for the St. Louis World’s Fair in 1904, the organ end­ed up in Philadel­phi­a’s Wana­mak­er’s depart­ment store in 1911. More than a cen­tu­ry lat­er, the organ still resides in the same store. But Macy’s even­tu­al­ly took over Wanamaker’s, and Macy’s now plans to close the store, leav­ing the fate of the organ unknown. Where will the 28,000-pipe organ find a new home? That’s still TBD, some­thing that’s like­ly to get resolved in the months to come.

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Down­load the Com­plete Organ Works of J.S. Bach for Free

Bohemi­an Rhap­sody Played on the Pipe Organ

The “All of Bach” Project Is Mak­ing Per­for­mances of Every Bach Piece Avail­able Online: Watch 346 High-Qual­i­ty Record­ings

Bach’s Most Famous Organ Piece Played on Wine Glass­es

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How Raphael Became A Master: Watch the Evolution of the Artist Through His Madonna Paintings

No artist became a Renais­sance mas­ter through a sin­gle piece of work, though now, half a mil­len­ni­um lat­er, that may be how most of us iden­ti­fy them. Leonar­do? Painter of the Mona Lisa. Michelan­ge­lo? Painter of the Sis­tine Chapel ceil­ing (or, per­haps, the sculp­tor of the most famous David, depend­ing on your medi­um of choice). Raphael? Painter of The School of Athens, as recent­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture. Raphael paint­ed that mas­ter­work in Vat­i­can City’s Apos­tolic Palace between the years 1509 and 1511, when he was in his mid-twen­ties. Under­stand­ing how he could have attained that lev­el of skill by that age requires exam­in­ing his oth­er work, as Evan Puschak, bet­ter known as the Nerd­writer, does in the new video above.

Specif­i­cal­ly, Puschak exam­ines Raphael’s Madon­nas, a sub­ject to which he returned over and over again through­out the course of his short but pro­duc­tive career. In what seems to have been his first ren­di­tion of Mary and her holy son, Puschak says, “you can see that Raphael has a bet­ter sense of three-dimen­sion­al bod­ies and how to make them feel like they’re part of the space that they’re in” than his father, who’d been a well-regard­ed painter him­self, or even than Piero del­la Francesca, from whom his father learned.

“Yet the paint­ing also suf­fers from “an awk­ward­ness in the arrange­ment of the fig­ures,” as well as a lack of “emo­tion, rela­tion­ships, or any sense of nar­ra­tive” — much like “a thou­sand oth­er Madon­nas that came before.”

Yet Raphael was a quick study, a trait reflect­ed in the devel­op­ment of the many Madon­nas he paint­ed there­after. From Leonar­do he learned tech­niques like sfu­ma­to, the cre­ation of soft tran­si­tions between col­ors; from Michelan­ge­lo, “how to use the human body as an expres­sive tool.” But what most clear­ly emerges is the con­cept con­tem­po­rary the­o­rist Leon Bat­tista Alber­ti called his­to­ria: a nar­ra­tive that plays out even with­in the con­fines of a sta­t­ic image. In Raphael’s cir­cu­lar, abun­dant­ly detailed Alba Madon­na of 1511, Puschak sees the infant Jesus “not so much tak­ing as grab­bing his future and pulling it clos­er” as Mary looks on with emo­tions sub­tly lay­ered into her face. How, exact­ly, Raphael honed his instinct for dra­ma is a ques­tion for art his­to­ri­ans. But would it be too much of a reach to guess that he also learned a thing or two from his time as a stage-set design­er?

Relat­ed con­tent:

Pla­to, Aris­to­tle & Oth­er Greek Philoso­phers in Raphael’s Renais­sance Mas­ter­piece, The School of Athens

Artist Turns Famous Paint­ings, from Raphael to Mon­et to Licht­en­stein, Into Inno­v­a­tive Sound­scapes

Why Leonar­do da Vinci’s Great­est Paint­ing is Not the Mona Lisa

The Evo­lu­tion of The Great Wave off Kana­gawa: See Four Ver­sions That Hoku­sai Paint­ed Over Near­ly 40 Years

14 Self-Por­traits by Pablo Picas­so Show the Evo­lu­tion of His Style: See Self-Por­traits Mov­ing from Ages 15 to 90

The Evo­lu­tion of Kandinsky’s Paint­ing: A Jour­ney from Real­ism to Vibrant Abstrac­tion Over 46 Years

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.

A Massive Choir Sings “Paranoid” to Honor Ozzy Osbourne

In Toron­to, 7,000 singers par­tic­i­pat­ed in Choir Choir Choir’s trib­ute to Ozzy Osbourne, all tak­ing part in a giant sing-along of “Para­noid.”  The first sin­gle on Black Sab­bath’s sec­ond album (1970), “Para­noid” reached #4 in the UK mar­ket and put Sab­bath on the map. The song also became an ear­ly heavy met­al clas­sic. Watch Sab­bath per­form the song live in 1970 here; or watch them per­form it for the very last time on July 5, 2025 here. Then enjoy the Choir Choir Choir trib­ute above.

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 

Watch David Byrne Lead a Mas­sive Choir in Singing David Bowie’s “Heroes”

Watch The Nine Lives of Ozzy Osbourne: A Free Doc­u­men­tary on the Heavy Met­al Pio­neer (RIP)

Ozzy Osbourne’s Gui­tarist Zakk Wylde Plays Black Sab­bath on a Hel­lo Kit­ty Gui­tar

Kids Orches­tra Plays Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train” and Zeppelin’s “Kash­mir”

Pat­ti Smith Sings “Peo­ple Have the Pow­er” with a Choir of 250 Fel­low Singers

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Empire Without Limit: Watch Mary Beard’s TV Series on Ancient Rome

As the found­ing myth has it, the city of Rome was estab­lished by a man named Romu­lus, one of two orphaned twin broth­ers raised by a she-wolf on the banks of the Tiber riv­er. The leg­end of Romu­lus and Remus, which involves the for­mer’s frat­ri­ci­dal slay­ing of the lat­ter, lends itself to strik­ing imagery, though it also gives forth more ques­tions than answers. “The Latin for wolf, lupa, also means pros­ti­tute,” for exam­ple, “so was it actu­al­ly a pros­ti­tute who came to the res­cue?” So asks his­to­ri­an Mary Beard in Rome: Empire With­out Lim­it, a four-part series you can watch in its entire­ty above.

In a sense, the sto­ry works either way: the mor­tal clash of broth­er against broth­er makes for a recur­ring metaphor­i­cal theme in the long his­to­ry of Rome, but so does the irre­press­ible pow­er of com­merce. Criss­cross­ing the Euro­pean con­ti­nent, Great Britain, the Mediter­ranean, and Africa by car, boat, bicy­cle, sub­way train, and above all on foot, Beard uses the traces of the might­i­est ancient empire to explain how the whole oper­a­tion actu­al­ly worked, and what its day-to-day expe­ri­ence was like for its sub­jects. When it orig­i­nal­ly aired in 2016, Empire With­out Lim­it fol­lowed up her acclaimed book SPQR: A His­to­ry of Ancient Rome, which cov­ers some of the same themes.

Those who’ve fol­lowed Beard’s work in print, on tele­vi­sion, or in oth­er media know that her ver­sion of Roman his­to­ry is hard­ly anoth­er suc­ces­sion of emper­ors and mil­i­tary cam­paigns. While she does devote time to dis­cussing such sig­nal fig­ures as Julius Cae­sar (who def­i­nite­ly did­n’t say “Et tu, Brute?”), Augus­tus, Hadri­an, and Con­stan­tine, she dis­plays equal or greater inter­est in a four-year-old sil­ver min­er in what’s now Spain, say, or an anony­mous young woman the shape of whose skull sug­gests the extent of migra­tion with­in the empire. And just as wor­thy of con­sid­er­a­tion as any par­tic­u­lar Roman cit­i­zen­ship is the con­cept of Roman cit­i­zen­ship itself, which ulti­mate­ly extend­ed across the vastest empire the world had ever known.

All roads lead to Rome, as the say­ing goes, and in the hey­day of the Roman empire, as Beard points out, it was actu­al­ly true. The ancient Romans were the first to build what she calls “a joined-up world,” where get­ting on a path in Rome and fol­low­ing it could get you all the way to places like Spain or Greece. (And also unprece­dent­ed­ly, you could take a glance at mile mark­ers along that road and imme­di­ate­ly “place your­self in the world.”) Roman dom­i­nance may have end­ed long ago, but the parts of the world have con­tin­ued to join up in much the same way since, and indeed, the broad Roman world­view sur­vives. As Beard puts it, “there’s a lit­tle bit of the Romans in the head of every one of us” — espe­cial­ly those of us who think about their empire every day.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The His­to­ry of Ancient Rome in 20 Quick Min­utes: A Primer Nar­rat­ed by Bri­an Cox

A Map Show­ing How the Ancient Romans Envi­sioned the World in 40 AD

How Rome Began: The His­to­ry As Told by Ancient His­to­ri­ans

Is Amer­i­ca Declin­ing Like Ancient Rome?

Do You Think About Ancient Rome Every Day? Then Browse a Wealth of Videos, Maps & Pho­tos That Explore the Roman Empire

Rick Steves’ Europe: Binge Watch 11 Sea­sons of America’s Favorite Trav­el­er Free Online

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.

What Makes Picasso’s Guernica a Great Painting?: Explore the Anti-Fascist Mural That Became a Worldwide Anti-War Symbol

A paint­ing is not thought out and set­tled in advance. While it is being done, it changes as one’s thoughts change. And when it’s fin­ished, it goes on chang­ing, accord­ing to the state of mind of who­ev­er is look­ing at it. — Pablo Picas­so

In a famous sto­ry about Guer­ni­ca, Pablo Picasso’s wrench­ing 1937 anti-war mur­al, a gestapo offi­cer barges into the painter’s Paris stu­dio and asks, “did you do that?”, to which Picas­so acer­bical­ly replies, “you did.” The title refers to the 1937 bomb­ing of a Basque town dur­ing the Span­ish Civ­il War, car­ried out by Span­ish Nation­al­ists and the Luft­waffe. Whether or not the anec­dote about Picas­so and the Nazi ever hap­pened is unim­por­tant; it encap­su­lates the artist’s dis­gust and out­rage over the atroc­i­ties of war and the takeover of his coun­try by Fran­co’s Nation­al­ists, unyield­ing sen­ti­ments found not only in the paint­ing but also its path through the world.

“Guer­ni­ca had this real­ly unique rela­tion­ship with Picas­so and his life,” says art his­to­ri­an Patri­cia Fail­ing. “In a way it was his alter ego.” This is a bold claim con­sid­er­ing that dur­ing most of his career, “Picas­so gen­er­al­ly avoids pol­i­tics,” notes PBS, “and dis­dains overt­ly polit­i­cal art.” After the mural’s exhi­bi­tion at the Span­ish Pavil­ion of the 1937 Paris World’s Fair, how­ev­er, the paint­ing was sent on tours of Europe and North Amer­i­ca “to raise con­scious­ness about the threat of fas­cism.”

In 1939, after the fall of Madrid, the artist declared, “The paint­ing will be turned over to the gov­ern­ment of the Span­ish Repub­lic the day the Repub­lic is restored in Spain!”  Then, almost 30 years lat­er,

In a sur­pris­ing­ly iron­ic turn, Fran­co launched a cam­paign in 1968 for repa­tri­a­tion of the paint­ing, assur­ing Picas­so that the Span­ish Gov­ern­ment had no objec­tion to the con­tro­ver­sial sub­ject mat­ter. One can only imag­ine how incred­u­lous Picas­so must have been. Through his lawyers, Picas­so turned the offer down flat, mak­ing it clear that Guer­ni­ca would be turned over only when democ­ra­cy and pub­lic lib­er­ties were restored to Spain.

Picas­so died in 1973 and nev­er saw his coun­try free from fas­cism. Fran­co died two years lat­er. The paint­ing was not exhib­it­ed in Spain until 1981 — not a “return,” but a restora­tion, per­haps, of an inter­na­tion­al icon that had endured 44 years of exile, had become a potent anti-war sym­bol dur­ing the Viet­nam War, and had sur­vived a van­dal attack the year after the artist’s death.

In the Great Art Explained video above, James Payne “looks at some of the more acknowl­edged inter­pre­ta­tions along with tech­niques, com­po­si­tion and artis­tic inspi­ra­tion,” as the video’s descrip­tion notes. “We all know that Art is not truth,” Picas­so said, con­sis­tent­ly dis­cour­ag­ing tidy inter­pre­ta­tions of Guer­ni­ca as a straight­for­ward protest paint­ing. “Art is a lie that makes us real­ize truth.” What do we real­ize when we stand before the mur­al — all 11 by 25 feet of it? It depends upon our state of mind, the artist might say, as he engulfs view­ers in an alle­gor­i­cal night­mare stand­ing in for a very real hor­ror.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2021.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Watch Pablo Picasso’s Cre­ative Process Unfold in Real-Time: Rare Footage Shows Him Cre­at­ing Draw­ings of Faces, Bulls & Chick­ens

The Gestapo Points to Guer­ni­ca and Asks Picas­so, “Did You Do This?;” Picas­so Replies “No, You Did!”

Guer­ni­ca: Alain Resnais’ Haunt­ing Film on Picasso’s Paint­ing & the Crimes of the Span­ish Civ­il War

The Mys­tery of Picas­so: Land­mark Film of a Leg­endary Artist at Work, by Hen­ri-Georges Clouzot

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

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.

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.

Animated Map Shows How the Five Major Religions Spread Across the World (3000 BC — 2000 AD)

Hin­duism, Judaism, Bud­dhism, Chris­tian­i­ty, Islam.… Claims to ancient ori­gin and ulti­mate author­i­ty notwith­stand­ing, the world’s five major reli­gions are all of recent vin­tage com­pared to the cou­ple hun­dred thou­sand years or more of human exis­tence on the plan­et. Dur­ing most of our pre­his­to­ry, reli­gious beliefs and prac­tices were large­ly local­ized, con­fined to the ter­ri­to­r­i­al or trib­al bound­aries of indi­vid­ual groups.

For peo­ple groups in the British Isles a thou­sand years ago, for exam­ple, the Lev­ant may as well have been anoth­er plan­et. How is it that Britain became a few hun­dred years lat­er one of the most zeal­ous­ly glob­al evan­ge­liz­ers of a reli­gion from Pales­tine? How is it that an Indi­an sect, Bud­dhism, which sup­pos­ed­ly began with one man some­time in the 5th Cen­tu­ry B.C.E., became the dom­i­nant reli­gion in all of Asia just a few hun­dred years lat­er?

Answer­ing such ques­tions in detail is the busi­ness of pro­fes­sion­al his­to­ri­ans. But we know the broad out­lines: the world’s major reli­gions spread through impe­r­i­al con­quest and forced con­ver­sion; through cul­tur­al exchange of ideas and the adap­ta­tion of far-off beliefs to local cus­toms, prac­tices, and rit­u­als; through migrant and dias­po­ra com­mu­ni­ties mov­ing across the globe. We know reli­gions trav­eled back and forth through trade routes over land and sea and were trans­mit­ted by the painstak­ing trans­la­tion and copy­ing by hand dense, lengthy scrip­tures.

All of these move­ments are also the move­ments of the mod­ern glob­al­ized world, a con­struct that began tak­ing shape a few thou­sand years ago. The spread of the “Big 5” reli­gions cor­re­sponds with the shift­ing of mass­es of humans around the globe as they formed the inter­con­nec­tions that now bind us all tight­ly togeth­er, whether we like it or not.

In the ani­mat­ed map above from Busi­ness Insid­er, you can watch the move­ment of these five faiths over the course of 5,000 years and see in the span of a lit­tle over two min­utes how the mod­ern world took shape. And you might find your­self won­der­ing: what will such a map look like in anoth­er 5,000 years? Or in 500? Will these glob­al reli­gions all meld into one? Will they with­er away? Will they splin­ter into thou­sands? Our spec­u­la­tions reveal much about what we think will hap­pen to human­i­ty in the future.

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

Relat­ed Con­tent:

World Reli­gions Explained with Use­ful Charts: Hin­duism, Bud­dhism, Judaism, Islam, Chris­tian­i­ty & More

A Visu­al Map of the World’s Major Reli­gions (and Non-Reli­gions)

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the World’s Five Major Reli­gions: Hin­duism, Judaism, Bud­dhism, Chris­tian­i­ty & Islam

Free Online Reli­gion Cours­es

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

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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.

Franz Kafka’s Anxious Letters to His Fiancée, Read Aloud by Richard Ayoade

It can’t have been easy being Franz Kaf­ka. But then, it can’t have been much eas­i­er being Franz Kafka’s fiancée, as evi­denced by the cor­re­spon­dence read aloud by Richard Ayoade in the new Let­ters Live video above. “It is now 10:30 on Mon­day morn­ing,” he wrote to Felice Bauer on Novem­ber 4, 1912. “I have been wait­ing for a let­ter since 10:30 on Sat­ur­day morn­ing, but again noth­ing has come. I have writ­ten every day but don’t I deserve even a word? One sin­gle word? Even if it were only to say ‘I nev­er want to hear from you again.’ ” This anx­ious, hec­tor­ing tone was not a one-off indul­gence. “Dear­est, what have I done that makes you tor­ment me so?” he plead­ed just over two weeks lat­er.

Kaf­ka and Bauer had been intro­duced three months before. She was a rel­a­tive of Max Brod, Kafka’s friend and even­tu­al lit­er­ary execu­tor, and accord­ing to Kafka’s diaries, made a fair­ly unpre­pos­sess­ing first impres­sion: “Bony, emp­ty face that wore its empti­ness open­ly. Bare throat. A blouse thrown on. Looked very domes­tic in her dress although, as it turned out, she by no means was.”

Yet dur­ing their ensu­ing five-year cor­re­spon­dence, he was moved to write her more than 500 let­ters, some of them sent one day after the oth­er — and more than a few berat­ing her for not writ­ing back quick­ly enough.

This rela­tion­ship twice led to engage­ment, but per­haps unsur­pris­ing­ly, nev­er cul­mi­nat­ed in mar­riage. Nev­er­the­less, Bauer’s rela­tion­ship with Kaf­ka remained impor­tant enough to her that she saved every­thing he wrote to her, which was col­lect­ed and pub­lished in book form as Briefe an Felice (and lat­er, in trans­la­tion, as Let­ters to Felice) in 1967. Per­haps, as bur­den­some as they could no doubt be, Kafka’s let­ters sug­gest­ed to Bauer a cer­tain lit­er­ary skill. (This was, after all, the same peri­od in which he wrote The Meta­mor­pho­sis and “In the Penal Colony,” as well as ear­ly ver­sions of The Tri­al). They also hint at his since-cel­e­brat­ed sense of humor, not least in a con­clud­ing line like “Damn the mail!” — words that, in Ayoad­e’s deliv­ery, draw a round of applause.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Franz Kafka’s Kafkaesque Love Let­ters

Franz Kaf­ka: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to His Lit­er­ary Genius

What Is Kafkaesque?: The Phi­los­o­phy of Franz Kaf­ka

Under­ground Car­toon­ist Robert Crumb Cre­ates an Illus­trat­ed Intro­duc­tion to Franz Kafka’s Life and Work

David Fos­ter Wal­lace Reads Franz Kafka’s Short Sto­ry “A Lit­tle Fable” (and Explains Why Com­e­dy Is Key to Kaf­ka)

Behold the Draw­ings of Franz Kaf­ka (1907–1917)

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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