Andy Warhol Creates Album Covers for Jazz Legends Thelonious Monk, Count Basie & Kenny Burrell

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Fla­vor­wire titles their post on album cov­ers designed by artist Andy Warhol—auteur of that spe­cial brand of late-mid­cen­tu­ry, impas­sive yet rock­ing-and-rolling, New York-root­ed Amer­i­can cool—“Beyond the Banana.” They refer, of course, to the fruit embla­zoned upon The Vel­vet Under­ground & Nico, the 1967 debut album from the avant-rock band formed right there in Warhol’s own “Fac­to­ry.” It would, of course, insult your cul­tur­al aware­ness to post an image of that par­tic­u­lar cov­er and ask if you knew Andy Warhol designed it. But how about that of Count Basie’s self-titled 1955 album above? Warhol, not a fig­ure most of us asso­ciate imme­di­ate­ly with jazz and its tra­di­tions, designed it, too.

monk-foster

He also did one for 1954’s MONK: Thelo­nious Monk with Son­ny Rollins and Frank Fos­ter, and, in 1958, for gui­tarist Ken­ny Bur­rel­l’s Blue Note dou­ble-disc Blue Lights.

Warholkenny-burrell

We now regard Blue Note high­ly for its taste in not only the aes­thet­ics of the music itself but also the pack­ag­ing that sur­rounds it, and thus we might assume the label had a nat­ur­al incli­na­tion to work with a vision­ary like Warhol. But in the late fifties, Blue Lights stretched Blue Note’s graph­i­cal sen­si­bil­i­ties as well as Warhol’s own; with it, he “final­ly broke away from sim­ply draw­ing close-ups of musi­cians and their instru­ments and deliv­ered a piece of art as evoca­tive as the music inside,” writes the San Fran­cis­co Chron­i­cle’s Aidin Vaziri.

Giv­en Warhol’s inter­est in the Unit­ed States and its icons, it stands to rea­son that he would take on design jobs for Basie, Monk, and Bur­rell just as read­i­ly as he would for the Vel­vet Under­ground, or for those Eng­lish­men who could out-Amer­i­can the Amer­i­cans, the Rolling Stones. He even did an album cov­er for a rep­re­sen­ta­tive of a whole oth­er slice of Amer­i­can cul­ture: play­wright Ten­nesee Williams, author of plays like The Glass MenagerieA Street­car Named Desire, and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

In 1952, Caed­mon put out a record called Ten­nessee Williams Read­ing from The Glass Menagerie, The Yel­low Bird and Five Poems, and its 1960 print­ing bears the Warhol art­work you see just above. Warhol in all these shows an impres­sive will­ing­ness to adapt to the per­sona of the musi­cian and the feel of their music; a casu­al Warhol enthu­si­ast may own one of these albums for years with­out ever real­iz­ing who did the cov­er art. He did­n’t even cleave exclu­sive­ly toward Amer­i­can forms, or to styles that main­stream Amer­i­ca might once have con­sid­ered artis­ti­cal­ly edgy. You could hard­ly get fur­ther from the posi­tion of the Vel­vet Under­ground than easy-lis­ten­ing vocals, let alone the easy-lis­ten­ing vocals of the Cana­di­an-born Paul Anka, but when the singer’s 1976 The Painter need­ed a cov­er, Warhol deliv­ered — and with a rec­og­niz­ably Warho­lian look, no less.

Warhol’s album cov­ers, from 1949 to 1987, have been col­lect­ed in the book, Andy Warhol: The Com­plete Com­mis­sioned Record Cov­ers.

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See more Warhol album cov­ers at NME, SFGate, and Fla­vor­wire.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Bob Egan, Detec­tive Extra­or­di­naire, Finds the Real Loca­tions of Icon­ic Album Cov­ers

Clas­sic Jazz Album Cov­ers Ani­mat­ed, or the Re-Birth of Cool

Record Cov­er Art by Under­ground Car­toon­ist Robert Crumb

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­lesA Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Animated Interview: The Great Ray Charles on Being Himself and Singing True

“You know,” says Ray Charles in this new ani­mat­ed inter­view from Blank on Blank, “what I got to live up to is being myself. If I do that the rest will take care of itself.”

Charles always sound­ed like no one else. When he played or sang just a few notes, you would imme­di­ate­ly rec­og­nize his dis­tinc­tive sound, that unique blend­ing of gospel and blues. As he explains in the inter­view, his style was a direct reflec­tion of who he was. “I can’t help what I sound like,” he says. “What I sound like is what I am, you know? I can­not be any­thing oth­er than what I am.”

Blank on Blank is a project that brings lost inter­views with famous cul­tur­al fig­ures back to life. The Charles video is the 12th episode in Blank on Blank’s ongo­ing series with PBS Dig­i­tal Stu­dios. The audio of Charles is from the Joe Smith Col­lec­tion at the Library of Con­gress. Smith is a for­mer record com­pa­ny exec­u­tive who record­ed over 200 inter­views with music indus­try icons for his book Off the Record: An Oral His­to­ry of Pop­u­lar Music. He talked with Charles on June 3, 1987, when the musi­cian was 56 years old. You can hear the com­plete, unedit­ed inter­view at the Library of Con­gress Web site.

In the inter­view, Charles says that being true to him­self was a night-by-night thing. “I don’t sing ‘Geor­gia’ like the record. I sing it true,” he says. “I sing what I sing true. Each night I sing it the way I feel that night.” For an exam­ple of Charles being true to him­self, here he is per­form­ing “Geor­gia On My Mind” on the Dick Cavett Show on Sep­tem­ber 18, 1972:

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Library of Con­gress Releas­es Audio Archive of Inter­views with Rock ‘n’ Roll Icons

Ani­ma­tions Revive Lost Inter­views with David Fos­ter Wal­lace, Jim Mor­ri­son & Dave Brubeck

 

Pride and Prejudice Translated into Academiotics (and More Fun with Scholarly Jargon)

pride and prejudice academic

Over at The New York­er, Vic­to­ria Dai­ley is hav­ing a lit­tle fun trans­lat­ing lines from Jane Austen’s Pride Prej­u­dice into “Acad­e­mi­otics” — in short, aca­d­e­m­ic speak. Here’s a lit­tle taste for you:

“It is a truth uni­ver­sal­ly acknowl­edged, that a sin­gle man in pos­ses­sion of a good for­tune, must be in want of a wife.”

Trans­la­tion:

The het­ero­gene­ity of assumed inten­tions may incur a con­clu­so­ry stereo­type regard­ing gen­der selec­tions in mar­riage-based soci­eties, espe­cial­ly in those where the mas­cu­line hege­mo­ny of cap­i­tal resources pre­sup­pos­es the fem­i­niza­tion of prop­er­ty and uxo­r­i­al acqui­si­tion.

Is tak­ing shots at human­ists not your favorite sport? It’s just too easy? Maybe spoof­ing social sci­en­tists is more your thing? Then you can read all about the Ser­bian aca­d­e­mics who recent­ly pub­lished  a com­plete­ly fab­ri­cat­ed arti­cle in a Roman­ian jour­nal. The pub­lished arti­cle itself, “Eval­u­a­tion of trans­for­ma­tive hermeneu­tic heuris­tics for pro­cess­ing ran­dom data,” appears on Scribd.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

John Sear­le on Fou­cault and the Obscu­ran­tism in French Phi­los­o­phy

Noam Chom­sky Slams Žižek and Lacan: Emp­ty ‘Pos­tur­ing’

The Recipes of Icon­ic Authors: Jane Austen, Sylvia Plath, Roald Dahl, the Mar­quis de Sade & More

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Stephen Fry Hosts “The Science of Opera,” a Discussion of How Music Moves Us Physically to Tears

I vivid­ly recall my first opera. It was The Mar­riage of Figaro at the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Opera in New York. A friend bought two fam­i­ly cir­cle tickets—nosebleed seats—and insist­ed that I come along. She was a trained opera singer and afi­ciona­do. I was an unlearned neo­phyte. Most of my expec­ta­tions were ful­filled: the enor­mous­ly impres­sive space, plen­ty of bom­bast, intri­cate­ly designed sets and cos­tum­ing. And it was long. Very long. But not, as I had feared, bor­ing. Not at all. I had not expect­ed, in fact, to be so phys­i­cal­ly moved by the per­for­mances, and not only moved to basic emotions—I was moved deep in my gut. There’s no way I could ade­quate­ly explain it.

But the med­ical sci­en­tists in the video above can. In “The Sci­ence of Opera,” actor Stephen Fry and come­di­an Alan Davies con­vene a pan­el of researchers from Uni­ver­si­ty Col­lege Lon­don to dis­cuss what hap­pened phys­i­o­log­i­cal­ly when the pair were hooked up to var­i­ous sen­sors as they attend­ed Verdi’s Simon Boc­cane­gra at the Roy­al Opera House. Like the pair­ing at my first opera, Fry is a knowl­edge­able lover of the art and Davies is almost an opera vir­gin (the sto­ry of his actu­al first opera gets a good laugh). The gad­gets attached to Fry and Davies mea­sured their heart rates, breath­ing, sweat, and “var­i­ous oth­er emo­tion­al respons­es.” What do we learn from the exper­i­ment? For one thing, as neu­ro­bi­ol­o­gist Michael Trim­ble informs us, “music is dif­fer­ent from all the oth­er arts.” For exam­ple, nine­ty per­cent of peo­ple sur­veyed admit to being moved to tears by a piece of music. Only five to ten per­cent say the same about paint­ing or sculp­ture. Fry and Davies’ auto­nom­ic ner­vous sys­tem respons­es con­firm the pow­er of music (and sto­ry) to move us beyond our con­scious con­trol and aware­ness.

And why is this? You’ll have to watch the dis­cus­sion to learn more—I won’t sum­ma­rize it here. Just know that we get insights not only into the sci­ence of opera, but the art as well—Verdi’s art in particular—and the var­i­ous dis­ci­plines rep­re­sent­ed here do much to expand our appre­ci­a­tion of music, whether we specif­i­cal­ly love opera or not. This is not the first talk on opera Fry has been a part of. He pre­vi­ous­ly host­ed anoth­er Roy­al Opera Com­pa­ny event called “Ver­di vs. Wag­n­er: the 200th birth­day debate” (above). Though I favor the Ger­mans, I’d say it’s a draw, but par­ti­sans of either one will like­ly come away with their opin­ions intact, hav­ing learned a thing or two along the way.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stephen Fry Reads Oscar Wilde’s Children’s Sto­ry “The Hap­py Prince”

Stephen Fry, Lan­guage Enthu­si­ast, Defends The “Unnec­es­sary” Art Of Swear­ing

Math­e­mu­si­cian Vi Hart Explains the Space-Time Con­tin­u­um With a Music Box, Bach, and a Möbius Strip

Find Yale’s Course “Lis­ten­ing to Music” in our Col­lec­tion of 775 Free Online Cours­es

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

Watch Lovebirds Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman Sing “Makin’ Whoopee!” Live

Aman­da Palmer and Neil Gaiman strike me as a very hap­pi­ly mar­ried cou­ple, an impres­sion their live cov­er of Makin’ Whoopee sup­ports.

What’s their secret? As any­one with an inter­est in romance or Earth Sci­ence will tell you, oppo­sites attract. On the sur­face of things, the exhi­bi­tion­is­tic, high­ly the­atri­cal, always con­tro­ver­sial Palmer is quite dif­fer­ent from her unfail­ing­ly dis­creet hus­band of the last two-and-a-half years. (Watch him mine his ret­i­cence to great com­ic effect at the 2.52 mark.)

That’s not to say they don’t have things in com­mon.

Both are insane­ly pro­lif­ic, the fruits of their labors dis­played across a vari­ety of plat­forms—music, comics, film, lit­er­a­ture, com­mence­ment speech­es, TED talks, Twit­ter

Both have rabid fan bases and blogs (Hers accepts com­ments; his does not.)

He was raised in a Sci­en­tol­o­gist house­hold. She scrawled Nope. Not plan­ning to fund Sci­en­tol­ogy with my Kick­starter mon­ey. That would be dumb on her nude tor­so, then post­ed a self­ie on her web­site, thus pour­ing gaso­line on the fires that pow­er that por­tion of the inter­net devot­ed to spread­ing mis­in­for­ma­tion about their reli­gious affil­i­a­tion.

And while he has three chil­dren from a pre­vi­ous mar­riage, the Gaiman-Palmer union has yet to pro­duce any lit­tle Neil or Aman­das. Which brings us back to Makin’ Whoopee. Whether or not the lyrics jibe with one’s per­son­al out­look, the song’s endur­ing pop­u­lar­i­ty (85 years and count­ing) might sug­gest its cen­tral dilem­ma is ever­green. Its bio­log­i­cal obser­va­tions are cer­tain­ly above reproach: sex often leads to babies, who lead to the sort of respon­si­bil­i­ties that sig­nal the end of the hon­ey­moon, if not the mar­riage.

Per­haps an open rela­tion­ship in the whoopee depart­ment will con­tin­ue to keep things play­ful between the Gaiman-Palmers, regard­less of what their future holds. It’s real­ly none of our busi­ness, is it?

(Those drawn to spec­u­la­tion, could do so live, when the alt.power-couple (Naman­da? Ameil?) bring their “inti­mate night” of spo­ken word, songs, sto­ries, audi­ence chats and sur­pris­es to New York City’s Town Hall.)

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Aman­da Palmer’s Tips for Being an Artist in the Rough-and-Tum­ble Dig­i­tal Age

Down­load Neil Gaiman’s Free Short Sto­ries

Neil Gaiman Gives Grad­u­ates 10 Essen­tial Tips for Work­ing in the Arts

BBC Radio Adap­ta­tion of Neil Gaiman’s Nev­er­where Begins Sat­ur­day: A Pre­view

Ayun Hal­l­i­day must ten­der her regrets as she is direct­ing a cast of 15 home schooled teens in her hus­band’s musi­cal, Yeast Nation, that night. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Violinist Nigel Kennedy Joins Young Palestinian Musicians for an Exotic Version of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons

You’ve heard it in shop­ping malls. You’ve heard it in ele­va­tors. No doubt you’ve even heard it on the tele­phone, while wait­ing on hold. But you’ve nev­er heard Anto­nio Vivaldi’s The Four Sea­sons like this before.

On August 8, the flam­boy­ant British vio­lin­ist Nigel Kennedy and mem­bers of his Poland-based Orches­tra of Life joined with the Pales­tine Strings ensem­ble at the Roy­al Albert Hall in Lon­don for a very unortho­dox per­for­mance of the Baroque clas­sic for a BBC Proms broad­cast. With musi­cians drawn most­ly from the West Bank and East Jerusalem, the Pales­tine Strings is an orches­tra of the Edward Said Nation­al Con­ser­va­to­ry of Music, a school found­ed in the Israeli-occu­pied ter­ri­to­ries in 1993 and named in 2004 for Said, the influ­en­tial Pales­tin­ian-born writer, the­o­rist and music afi­ciona­do who died the pre­vi­ous year.

The 17 mem­bers of the Pales­tine Strings who trav­eled to Lon­don ranged from 13 to 23 years old. They wore black-and-white check­ered kef­fiyehs over their suits and dress­es as a show of nation­al pride. In the per­for­mance (shown above in its entire­ty), Kennedy and his col­lab­o­ra­tors fol­lowed the basic out­line of Vivaldi’s four-con­cer­to suite, but made fre­quent excur­sions into jazz and Ara­bic music. As Helen Wal­lace writes at BBC Music Mag­a­zine:

Into a basic rhythm sec­tion set-up — the irre­sistible bassist Yaron Stavi and Krzysztof Dziedz­ic on sub­tle per­cus­sion with­out drum kit, the gen­tly agile pianist Gwilym Sim­cock pro­vid­ing a per­fect con­tin­uo foil to Kennedy’s man­ic saw­ing — he wove spaces into which the young Pales­tin­ian soloists could stand and impro­vise in mes­meris­ing Ara­bic style. These were espe­cial­ly suc­cess­ful in the appre­hen­sive slow move­ment of Sum­mer, where the shep­herd boy fears the immi­nent storm: sin­u­ous, silky-toned melis­mas from vio­lin, vio­la and voice rang out, pro­ject­ing like melan­choly muezzin calls into the hall, and suit­ing per­fect­ly Vivaldi’s open struc­ture.

It was­n’t all good: “It Don’t Mean a Thing” cropped up in Sum­mer apro­pos of noth­ing, while Spring opened with infu­ri­at­ing, Shirley Bassey-style crescen­dos on the final notes of every phrase. Kennedy’s own solos were pret­ty rough at times. At one point in Autumn he lost the thread com­plete­ly and had to stop and ask the leader where they were. But he led the con­cer­tante episodes with such charm and wit, adding in birds at spring time, and deliv­er­ing Win­ter’s aria like the purest folk air, you had to for­give the excess­es.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Four­teen-Year-Old Girl’s Blis­ter­ing Heavy Met­al Per­for­mance of Vival­di

Edward Said Speaks Can­did­ly about Pol­i­tics, His Ill­ness, and His Lega­cy in His Final Inter­view (2003)

Quentin Tarantino’s 10 Favorite Films of 2013

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The Quentin Taran­ti­no Archives, which bills itself, per­haps not hyper­bol­i­cal­ly, as the “web’s biggest and most pop­u­lar web­site about Quentin Taran­ti­no and his movies,” has post­ed an exclu­sive — a list of the film­mak­er’s favorite movies of 2013, through the month of Sep­tem­ber.

1. After­noon Delight (Jill Soloway)
2. Before Mid­night (Richard Lin­klater)
3. Blue Jas­mine (Woody Allen)
4. The Con­jur­ing (James Wan)
5. Drink­ing Bud­dies (Joe Swan­berg)
6. Frances Ha (Noah Baum­bach)
7. Grav­i­ty (Alfon­so Cuarón)
8. Kick Ass 2 (Jeff Wad­low)
9. The Lone Ranger (Gore Verbin­s­ki)
10. This Is The End (Seth Rogen, Evan Gold­berg)

There you have the films that touched Taran­ti­no over the past nine months. But are you won­der­ing about the longer term? The past 25 years? The entire his­to­ry of cin­e­ma? If so, see:

Quentin Taran­ti­no Lists His Favorite Films Since 1992

Quentin Taran­ti­no Lists the 12 Great­est Films of All Time: From Taxi Dri­ver to The Bad News Bears

via Fla­vor­wire

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch My Best Friend’s Birth­day, Quentin Tarantino’s 1987 Debut Film

Film­mak­ing Advice from Quentin Taran­ti­no and Sam Rai­mi (NSFW)

Quentin Tarantino’s 75 Minute Inter­view with Howard Stern

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Animated Video Explores the Invented Languages of Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones & Star Trek

“Is there any­thing sad­der than an Esper­an­tist?” a friend once jok­ing­ly asked me. “Two Esper­an­tists” might seem the nat­ur­al response, but hey, at least they could talk to each oth­er. Speak­ers of Esperan­to, the best-known con­struct­ed lan­guage, have wound up as the butt of more than a few jokes since the tongue’s inven­tor Lud­wig Lazarus Zamen­hof first made his utopi­an lin­guis­tic cre­ation pub­lic in 1887, intend­ing it as a tool to unite a frac­tious, nation­al­is­tic mankind. (A noble ori­gin, bal­anced by such less-noble uses such as that William Shat­ner hor­ror movie.) Yet Esperan­to has actu­al­ly enjoyed sin­gu­lar suc­cess, by the stan­dards of con­struct­ed lan­guages. In the five-minute TED Ed les­son above (and the expand­ed one at TED Ed’s own site), lin­guist John McWhort­er tells us about the inven­tion of oth­er, less­er-known “con­langs,” includ­ing Elvish, Klin­gon, Dothra­ki, and Na’vi. If you’ve nev­er heard any of those spo­ken, don’t feel unwor­thy; maybe you just haven’t suf­fi­cient­ly explored con­struct­ed worlds like those in which Game of Thrones, Avatar, Star Trek, and The Lord of the Rings take place.

McWhort­er makes a spe­cial point of Elvish since, in con­struct­ing it for use in The Lord of the Rings’ Mid­dle-Earth, J.R.R . Tolkien made a lin­guis­tic effort with lit­tle prece­dent in mod­ern lit­er­a­ture. He took the pains, in fact, to con­struct not just a plau­si­ble Elvish lan­guage but a plau­si­ble set of Elvish lan­guages. “Tolkien chart­ed out ancient and new­er ver­sions of Elvish. When the first Elves awoke at Cuiv­ié­nen, in their new lan­guage the word for peo­ple was kwen­di, but in the lan­guage of one of the groups that moved away, Teleri, over time kwen­di became pen­di. Just like real lan­guages, con­langs like Elvish split off into many. When the Romans trans­plant­ed Latin across Europe, French, Span­ish, and Ital­ian were born.” Hence, in our real­i­ty, a vari­ety of words for hand like mainmanus, and mano, and in Tolkien’s real­i­ty, a vari­ety of words for peo­ple like kwen­dipen­di, and kin­di. But Elvish now finds itself sur­passed in gram­mat­i­cal com­plex­i­ty and breadth of vocab­u­lary by the likes of Klin­gon, Dothra­ki, and Na’vi, whose fans have put as much ener­gy into expand­ing them as their cre­ators. And those inter­est­ed in sim­i­lar­ly robust “real” con­langs — i.e., those not built for a fic­tion­al realm, but for ours — might take a look at Ithkuil, whose cre­ator John Qui­ja­da was recent­ly pro­filed in the New York­er by Joshua Foer. You’ll also not want to miss this past post on Open Cul­ture where Tolkien Reads Poems from The Fel­low­ship of the Ring, in Elvish and Eng­lish (1952). Or just lis­ten to the read­ing below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­to­ry of the Eng­lish Lan­guage in Ten Ani­mat­ed Min­utes

Speak­ing in Whis­tles: The Whis­tled Lan­guage of Oax­a­ca, Mex­i­co

Down­load Eight Free Lec­tures on The Hob­bit by “The Tolkien Pro­fes­sor,” Corey Olsen

Find Esperan­to Tips in our col­lec­tion of Free Online For­eign Lan­guage Lessons

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­lesA Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Ernest Hemingway’s Delusional Adventures in Boxing: “My Writing is Nothing, My Boxing is Everything.”

In a 1954 inter­view in the Paris Review, Ralph Elli­son said of one of his lit­er­ary heroes: “When [Ernest Hem­ing­way] describes some­thing in print, believe him; believe him even when he describes the process of art in terms of base­ball or box­ing; he’s been there.” I read this think­ing that Elli­son might be a bit too cred­u­lous. Hem­ing­way, after all, has pro­voked no end of eye-rolling for his leg­endary machis­mo, brava­do, and maybe sev­er­al dozen oth­er Latin descrip­tors for mas­cu­line fool­har­di­ness and blus­ter. As for his “box­ing,” we would be wise not to believe him. He may have “been there,” but the real box­ers he encoun­tered, and tried to spar with, would nev­er tes­ti­fy he knew what he was doing

Ernest Hem­ing­way wasn’t a box­er so much as he was a “box­er”… a leg­end in his own mind, a roman­tic. Hemingway’s friend and some­time spar­ring part­ner, nov­el­ist Mor­ley Callaghan tells it this way: “we were two ama­teur box­ers. The dif­fer­ence between us was that he had giv­en time and imag­i­na­tion to box­ing; I had actu­al­ly worked out a lot with good fast col­lege box­ers.” Or, as the author of an arti­cle on the Fine Books & Col­lec­tions site has it, “Hem­ing­way was lost in the romance of a sport that has no romance to those seri­ous­ly pur­su­ing it; the romance strict­ly belongs to spec­ta­tors.”

As a spec­ta­tor with pre­ten­tions to great­ness in the sport, Papa was prone to over­es­ti­mat­ing his abil­i­ties, at the expense of his actu­al skill as a writer. As he would tell Josephine Herb­st, with­out a hint of irony, “my writ­ing is noth­ing, my box­ing is every­thing.”

Hemingwayletter

Click for larg­er image

How did the pros eval­u­ate his self-pro­fessed abil­i­ty? Jack Dempsey, who spent time in Paris in the ‘20s being fet­ed and fawned over, had this to say of Hemingway’s aspi­ra­tions:

There were a lot of Amer­i­cans in Paris and I sparred with a cou­ple, just to be oblig­ing…. But there was one fel­low I would­n’t mix it with. That was Ernest Hem­ing­way. He was about twen­ty-five or so and in good shape, and I was get­ting so I could read peo­ple, or any­way men, pret­ty well. I had this sense that Hem­ing­way, who real­ly thought he could box, would come out of the cor­ner like a mad­man. To stop him, I would have to hurt him bad­ly, I did­n’t want to do that to Hem­ing­way. That’s why I nev­er sparred with him.

Giv­en Hemingway’s pen­chant for self-delu­sion in this mat­ter, he may have inter­pret­ed this as Dempsey’s capit­u­la­tion to his obvi­ous prowess. An even more scathing cri­tique of Hemingway’s bul­ly­ing… I mean box­ing skill … comes to us via Book­tryst’s Stephen J. Gertz, who prof­fers an amus­ing dis­sec­tion of the let­ter above, an unpub­lished cor­re­spon­dence Hem­ing­way sent in 1943 to George Brown, the writer’s “train­er, coach, friend, and fac­to­tum.” Brown, it seems, was kind­ly, or pru­dent, enough to encour­age his employ­er in his delu­sions. How­ev­er, Gertz writes, “the real­i­ty was that any­one who had even the slight­est idea of what they were doing in the ring could take Hem­ing­way, who was noto­ri­ous for fool­ish­ly try­ing to actu­al­ly fight trained box­ers.” He’s lucky, then, that Dempsey prac­ticed such judi­cious restraint. If not, we may nev­er have seen any fic­tion from Hem­ing­way after he tried to go a round or two with the champ.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ernest Hem­ing­way to F. Scott Fitzger­ald: “Kiss My Ass”

18 (Free) Books Ernest Hem­ing­way Wished He Could Read Again for the First Time

Ernest Hemingway’s Favorite Ham­burg­er Recipe

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

How To Be Creative: PBS’ Off Book Series Explores the Secret Sauce of Great Ideas

How to be cre­ative? There’s no sim­ple answer to that ques­tion, and no short­age of peo­ple offer­ing answers. Com­ic genius John Cleese will tell you it’s all about cre­at­ing “oases for child­like play.” Film­mak­er David Lynch finds a great source of cre­ativ­i­ty in med­i­ta­tion. Nov­el­ist Amy Tan sees cre­ativ­i­ty flow­ing from a kind of cos­mic empa­thy (got­ta watch the video to see what I mean). And Stan­ford edu­ca­tor Tina Seel­ig offers her own set of answers in a recent book, MOOC, and a TED Talk.

Now let us give you a lit­tle more food for thought. The lat­est episode of PBS’ Off Book video series fea­tures four fig­ures — an author, cog­ni­tive psy­chol­o­gist, film­mak­er, and com­put­er sci­en­tist — all try­ing to put their fin­gers on the elu­sive things that make cre­ativ­i­ty hap­pen. Their thoughts and advice are var­ied. But if you put them all togeth­er, you may make strides in your own cre­ative life.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

David Lynch Explains How Med­i­ta­tion Enhances Our Cre­ativ­i­ty

John Cleese’s Phi­los­o­phy of Cre­ativ­i­ty: Cre­at­ing Oases for Child­like Play

Mal­colm McLaren: The Quest for Authen­tic Cre­ativ­i­ty

Mihaly Czik­szent­mi­ha­lyi Explains Why the Source of Hap­pi­ness Lies in Cre­ativ­i­ty and Flow, Not Mon­ey

Ansel Adams Reveals His Cre­ative Process in 1958 Doc­u­men­tary

The Com­plete His­to­ry of the World (and Human Cre­ativ­i­ty) in 100 Objects

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How Animated Cartoons Are Made: Watch a Short, Charming Primer from 1919

Wal­lace Carl­son, a pio­neer­ing ani­ma­tor who cre­at­ed films like Dreamy Dud: He Resolves Not to Smoke (1915), joined Bray Stu­dios in 1917, where, among oth­er things, he pro­duced a film called How Ani­mat­ed Car­toons Are Made. Accord­ing to Car­toon Research, a site ded­i­cat­ed to car­toon his­to­ry, the film offers per­haps the ear­li­est and truest look at how car­toons were made near­ly a cen­tu­ry ago. And it’s all done with some charm and wit. You can find the nine-minute short added to the Ani­ma­tion sec­tion of our col­lec­tion of 575 Free Movies Online. Mean­while, if old-time ani­ma­tion fas­ci­nates you, you’ll want to watch How Walt Dis­ney Car­toons Are Made, a 1939 pro­duc­tion that takes you inside the mak­ing of Snow White (1937).

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 The Amaz­ing 1912 Ani­ma­tion of Stop-Motion Pio­neer Ladis­las Stare­vich, Star­ring Dead Bugs

Euro­pean Cave Art: Was It The Ear­li­est Form of Cin­e­ma?

The Dis­ney Car­toon That Intro­duced Mick­ey Mouse & Ani­ma­tion with Sound (1928)

How Walt Dis­ney Car­toons Are Made (1939)

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