Day of Light: A Crowdsourced Film by Multimedia Genius Brian Eno

Over the past sev­er­al years, we’ve seen exper­i­men­tal artists adapt grace­ful­ly (or cash in, if you’re cyn­i­cal) to the user-gen­er­at­ed world we live in now. While the pre­dictably unpre­dictable Flam­ing Lips have been at the inter­ac­tive media game for a while in their own weird way, we’ve also seen Bjork branch out into mul­ti­me­dia with the Bio­phil­ia iPhone/iPad app to accom­pa­ny the album of the same name, and last week we cov­ered Philip Glass’s for­ay into the app mar­ket with his Glass Machine remix­ing app.

Not ever to be out­done, producer/composer/multimedia genius Bri­an Eno released his own app last year, Scape, which allows users to gen­er­ate their own ambi­ent com­po­si­tions on their i‑devices. Scape’s release came just before that of Eno’s lat­est ambi­ent album, Lux, a col­lec­tion of sound­scapes that were ini­tial­ly installed in art gal­leries and air­port ter­mi­nals. On the album’s release date this past Novem­ber, Eno had more in store for fans. He streamed the entire album online at four dif­fer­ent times dur­ing the same day: sun­rise, day­light, sun­set, and night.

Lis­ten­ers were invit­ed to upload pho­tos of each time of day, under the gen­er­al theme of “play of light” (a title Eno con­sid­ered for the album). Eno and his team then curat­ed their favorite images, from all over the globe, and edit­ed them togeth­er into the short film above, enti­tled “Day of Light.” The idea, he says, was to “make a col­lab­o­ra­tive, gen­er­a­tive work… to see what hap­pened if you just made a space for it to hap­pen in.” Judge the results for your­self. Does this prod­uct from the minds and eyes of the Eno col­lec­tive add up to more than the sum of its parts?

Relat­ed Con­tent

Bri­an Eno on Cre­at­ing Music and Art As Imag­i­nary Land­scapes (1989)

Bri­an Eno Once Com­posed Music for Win­dows 95; Now He Lets You Cre­ate Music with an iPad App

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness

R.E.M.‘s “Losing My Religion” Reworked from Minor to Major Scale

Take R.E.M.‘s 1991 bal­lad “Los­ing My Reli­gion” and rework it from minor to major scale, and here’s what you get — some­thing that’s, as one Vimeo com­menter called it, “rec­og­niz­able enough to be nostalgic…unique enough to be shared!” Oth­er songs dig­i­tal­ly reworked by MajorScaled TV include “Rid­ers on the Storm” by The Doors, Metal­li­ca’s “Noth­ing Else Mat­ters,” and Djan­go Rein­hardt’s “Minor Swing.” Fol­low MajorScaled TV on Face­book for even­tu­al addi­tions to the col­lec­tion.

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.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spir­it,” Reworked in Major Key, Becomes a Cheer­ful Pop Song

R.E.M. Reveals the Secrets Behind Their Emo­tion­al­ly-Charged Songs: “Los­ing My Reli­gion” and “Try Not to Breathe”

R.E.M Plays “Radio Free Europe” on Their Nation­al Tele­vi­sion Debut on The David Let­ter­man Show (1983)

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Harder Than It Looks: How to Make a Great Stop Motion Animation

Ever find your­self watch­ing a great lit­tle stop motion ani­ma­tion and think­ing, “Hey, I could do that?”  What’s that? You made one with some friends in mid­dle school? Great! Maybe you should bang one out tomor­row morn­ing, slap it up on YouTube, and brace your­self for the onslaught of pub­lic ado­ra­tion that’s so damnably dif­fi­cult to avoid when one’s cre­ation becomes a viral sen­sa­tion overnight.

Hold your hors­es, Gum­by. Film­mak­ing has grown increas­ing­ly demo­c­ra­t­ic in the dig­i­tal age, but a real­ly elab­o­rate stop motion ani­ma­tion is still a ton of work. Care to con­sid­er all that goes into one?

Try 382 Mole­sk­ine note­books; days of painstak­ing, no doubt bor­ing, labor; a cam­era dol­ly, a green screen, and a live, albeit less-than-pro­fes­sion­al, cat and mouse team. These are the pri­ma­ry ele­ments of Dutch “graph­ic motion design­er” Rogi­er Wieland’s “A Year in Full Colour,” a cun­ning salute to old-school dai­ly plan­ners. Unsur­pris­ing­ly, this flight of fan­cy was com­mis­sioned by Mole­sk­ine, a brand whose inroads into the iPad cov­er mar­ket would like­ly not be enough to keep things in the black should jot­ting things on paper go the way of the dodo.  Per­haps instead of mak­ing a stop motion of your own, you could pour your cre­ative efforts into record­ing your upcom­ing appoint­ments in a Mole­sk­ine clas­sic.

As to which you should view first—the fin­ished prod­uct (above) or the equal­ly brief, but high­ly illu­mi­nat­ing Mak­ing Of  (below)–we leave that in your capa­ble hands.

Relat­ed Con­tent

Spike Jonze Presents a Stop Motion Film for Book Lovers

Going West: A Stop Motion Nov­el

Ayun Hal­l­i­day’s plan­ner of choice is the Sling­shot Orga­niz­er  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Rachmaninoff Plays Rachmaninoff: Three Famous Pieces, 1919–1929

After hear­ing this week from two great French com­posers linked to the Impres­sion­ist move­ment–Claude Debussy and Mau­rice Rav­el–we con­tin­ue our series of clas­sic piano-roll record­ings with a trio of per­for­mances by the last of the great Russ­ian Roman­tic com­posers: Sergei Rach­mani­noff.

When the Bol­she­viks seized the aris­to­crat­ic Rach­mani­nof­f’s estate short­ly after the Octo­ber Rev­o­lu­tion of 1917, he and his fam­i­ly fled to Scan­di­navia and then to Amer­i­ca, where they arrived in Novem­ber of 1918. To make mon­ey, the cash-strapped émi­gré put aside com­pos­ing and embarked on a gru­el­ing per­for­mance sched­ule, and in March of 1919 agreed to make a series of piano-roll record­ings for the Amer­i­can Piano Com­pa­ny, or “Ampi­co.”

It was a time of tran­si­tion for musi­cal enter­tain­ment. Most fam­i­lies who were not poor owned a piano, in keep­ing with the tra­di­tion that home enter­tain­ment was a do-it-your­self affair. But as tech­nol­o­gy advanced, peo­ple became more accus­tomed to the idea of hear­ing the music of a world-famous vir­tu­oso in their own liv­ing room. Play­er pianos, or pianolas, sound­ed bet­ter than ear­ly phono­graphs and could still serve the func­tion of a reg­u­lar piano, so for awhile there was a boom­ing busi­ness in the per­fo­rat­ed paper rolls that kept them play­ing.

Rach­mani­noff was inter­est­ed in tap­ping into the piano roll mar­ket, but was skep­ti­cal at first about the qual­i­ty of the record­ings. When he made his first record­ing at the Ampi­co stu­dio in New York, he was pleas­ant­ly sur­prised when he heard the play­back. “Gen­tle­men,” he report­ed­ly said, “I, Sergei Rach­mani­noff, have just heard myself play.” He would even­tu­al­ly record 35 pieces for Ampi­co between 1919 and 1929, twelve of which were his own com­po­si­tions. In the video above, we hear three of his best-known piano-roll record­ings:

  1. Rach­mani­noff plays his famous Pre­lude in C Sharp Minor, Op. 3, No. 2 , from the 1892 suite, Morceaux de fan­taisie (“Fan­ta­sy Pieces”), record­ed on March 17, 1919.
  2. Rach­mani­noff plays his own piano tran­scrip­tion of his pop­u­lar 1902 song “Lilacs,” from 12 Romances (also known as 12 Songs), Op. 21, record­ed on April 6, 1922.
  3. Rach­mani­noff plays a famous short piece writ­ten by anoth­er Russ­ian com­pos­er: Niko­lai Rim­sky-Kor­sakov’s 1903 “Flight of the Bum­ble­bee,” record­ed on Feb­ru­ary 1, 1929.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Rav­el Plays Rav­el: The Haunt­ing, Melan­choly ‘Oiseaux Tristes,’ 1922

Debussy Plays Debussy: The Great Com­poser’s Play­ing Returns to Life

Watch the Great Russ­ian Com­pos­er Sergei Rach­mani­noff in Home Movies

Watch Philip Glass Remix His Own Music—Then Try it Yourself With a New App

We told you in the fall about the album released by Beck and a troupe of oth­er musi­cians to cel­e­brate com­pos­er Philip Glass’s 75th birth­day. Rework—Philip Glass Remixed is a col­lec­tion of Glass works by artists includ­ing Beck, Tyondai Brax­ton, and Cor­nelius. Turns out that Glass him­self was pret­ty turned on by the results. In the above video, Glass plays around with his own music using an inter­ac­tive “Glass Machine” app, designed to com­ple­ment the album.

You can almost see the wheels in Glass’s head turn­ing as he swipes and taps away on the screen, cre­at­ing new loops with phras­es from his own music.

The app that Glass enjoys so much is avail­able to any­one with an iPad, iPod touch or iPhone (3Gs or new­er) and $10. The Rework app was designed by Scott Snibbe, who also cre­at­ed the inter­ac­tive galaxy in Bjork’s Bio­phil­ia app.

mzl_cunmodcg_320x480-75

The app includes eleven inter­ac­tive visu­al­iza­tions of remixed songs from the Rework album (exam­ple on left) and a Glass Machine, allow­ing users to cre­ate their own Glass-inspired music.

As Glass him­self said, while play­ing with the Machine, “the user has become the artist.”

Relat­ed Con­tent

Philip Glass, Seen and Heard Through the Cin­e­mat­ic Mind of Peter Green­away (1983)

‘The Bal­lad of the Skele­tons’: Allen Ginsberg’s 1996 Col­lab­o­ra­tion with Philip Glass and Paul McCart­ney

Kate Rix writes about dig­i­tal media and edu­ca­tion. Read more of her work at .  

Hear Lost Acetate Versions of Songs from The Velvet Underground & Nico (1966)

While the first Vel­vet Under­ground album may only have sold 30,000 copies, every­one who bought one start­ed a band. You know, if you have even a faint acquain­tance with rock his­to­ry, that that well-worn obser­va­tion comes from pro­duc­er, artis­tic inno­va­tor, and “non-musi­cian” musi­cian Bri­an Eno. And whether you could get into it or not, you’ve no doubt heard at least parts of that first album, The Vel­vet Under­ground & Nico, the 1967 release that brought togeth­er such soon-to-be rock lumi­nar­ies as Lou Reed, John Cale, and the tit­u­lar Ger­man vocalist/Warhol Super­star Nico. The whole album, in fact, appeared under Warhol’s aegis, and like most works asso­ci­at­ed with him, it tends to push opin­ions far in one direc­tion or the oth­er. The Vel­vet Under­gound & Nico may still move you to found a rock band — or to scrap your inter­est in rock alto­geth­er — 45 years after its first release.

I refer to the record’s “first release” because it’s recent­ly under­gone a cou­ple more, both of which orig­i­nate in a ver­sion nev­er even intend­ed for mar­ket. “In 2002, a fel­low paid 75 cents at a New York City flea mar­ket for a curi­ous acetate record­ing of the Vel­vet Under­ground,” reports Boing Boing’s David Pescovitz. “Turns out, the acetate con­tained ear­ly record­ed takes and mix­es of songs in dif­fer­ent form.” That man had stum­bled upon the cov­et­ed Scepter Stu­dios acetate ver­sion of the album that launched 30,000 bands, boot­leg files of which soon began cir­cu­lat­ing on the net. The acetate received a legit­i­mate release last year as part of The Vel­vet Under­ground & Nico’s “45th Anniver­sary Super Deluxe Edi­tion,” and you can hear cuts from it, like “Hero­in” at the top of this post and “All Tomor­row’s Par­ties” just above. For Vel­vet Under­ground purists, of course, only hear­ing the acetate disc itself will do. They’ll have a hard time doing so — it last changed hands for $25,200 — but luck­i­ly they can now get at least one step clos­er with its brand new vinyl release.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Sym­pho­ny of Sound (1966): Vel­vet Under­ground Impro­vis­es, Warhol Films It, Until the Cops Turn Up

Andy Warhol Quits Paint­ing, Man­ages The Vel­vet Under­ground (1965)

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 Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

MAKERS Tells the Story of 50 Years of Progress for Women in the U.S.

Among the many thou­sands of items in my news­feed yes­ter­day, three popped out and stuck with me: First, a con­ser­v­a­tive pan­el called Inde­pen­dent Women’s Forum con­vened to dis­cuss their sense that “con­ser­v­a­tive lead­ers and fun­ders… don’t take women’s issues seri­ous­ly.” Pan­el mod­er­a­tor Christi­na Hoff Som­mers joked, “I’m not sure what’s worse: con­ser­v­a­tives ignor­ing women’s issues or con­ser­v­a­tives address­ing them.” The tone was light, but the sense of frus­tra­tion these women feel with their male col­leagues was very clear.

Sec­ond­ly, a UK come­di­an, Michael J. Dolan pub­lished a soul-search­ing piece much dis­cussed state­side in which he admits he was “a misog­y­nist come­di­an.” Dolan claims that, like racist come­di­ans of old, “Those ped­dling misog­y­ny, homo­pho­bia or oth­er vari­eties of hate to drunks who don’t know bet­ter are going to find them­selves out of favour.” And final­ly, for­mer pres­i­dent Jim­my Carter wrote an edi­to­r­i­al to announce that he is sev­er­ing his six-decade-long ties with the South­ern Bap­tist Con­ven­tion because of their view that women should be “sub­servient” to men. “It is sim­ply self-defeat­ing,” wrote Carter, “for any com­mu­ni­ty to dis­crim­i­nate against half its pop­u­la­tion.”

I men­tion these exam­ples because they seem to be part of a gen­er­al trend of cul­tur­al reassess­ment, after sev­er­al dis­mal­ly low points in the dis­cus­sion of gen­der equal­i­ty this past year, about the con­tin­ued institutionalization—in pol­i­tics, reli­gion, the work­place, and enter­tain­ment—of dam­ag­ing atti­tudes toward half of the human species. While it some­times seems that social change takes place at a glacial pace, with sev­er­al steps back for every step for­ward, there are always strong under­cur­rents of progress that aren’t read­i­ly appar­ent until some­one takes the time to orga­nize them into nar­ra­tives.

This is pre­cise­ly what the film­mak­ers of MAKERS aim to do. A “mul­ti-plat­form video expe­ri­ence” from AOL and PBS, the project show­cas­es “hun­dreds of com­pelling sto­ries from women of today and tomor­row… both known and unknown.” Unlike world­wide, pol­i­cy-based efforts like the just-end­ed 2013 Glob­al Mater­nal Health Con­fer­ence, MAKERS restricts its focus to women in the U.S. and, it seems, relies pri­mar­i­ly on indi­vid­ual women with promi­nent pub­lic roles—journalists, activists, writ­ers, and celebri­ties, or at least that’s the sense one gets from their intro­duc­to­ry video (above), which might open them up to charges of elit­ism. But there is more to the project than celebri­ty pro­files. In their own words, the pro­duc­ers of MAKERS describe the project thus:

MAKERS orig­i­nat­ed from a very clear premise: over the last half cen­tu­ry, the work of mil­lions of women has altered vir­tu­al­ly every aspect of Amer­i­can cul­ture. MAKERS fea­tures ground­break­ing women who have sparked change, been first in their fields and paved the way for those that fol­lowed. This ini­tia­tive also extends to pro­file hun­dreds of sto­ries of women who are dri­ving social change today.

Delve into the wealth of short doc­u­men­tary videos on the MAKERS YouTube chan­nel and you’ll see that there are dozens of women pro­filed who aren’t celebri­ties in the con­ven­tion­al sense. Sure, we’ve got stars of the screen and the pow­er cen­ters of gov­ern­ment and the cor­po­rate world, e.g. Ellen DeGeneres, Hilary Clin­ton, and Yahoo CEO Maris­sa May­er, but there are also less­er known “mak­ers,” like 15-year-old Tavi Gevin­son, founder and edi­tor-in-chief of webzine Rook­ie. Gevin­son is a prodi­gy who has built her own online media empire, begin­ning at the age of 11, when her fash­ion blog Style Rook­ie became one of the most pop­u­lar of its kind. Watch her (below) dis­cuss her own approach to typ­i­cal teenage inse­cu­ri­ties in an excerpt from her longer pro­file.

Anoth­er mak­er with a deeply inspir­ing sto­ry that you won’t hear in the dai­ly news cycle is Kather­ine Switzer, the first woman to enter the Boston Marathon in 1967. She did so by sign­ing the form with her ini­tials, mak­ing marathon offi­cials think she was a man. Below, Switzer recounts the curios­i­ty, bile, and dis­turbing­ly vio­lent harass­ment she faced dur­ing the race. It wasn’t until five years lat­er that the race was offi­cial­ly opened to women. By that time, Switzer was an activist for female run­ners.

The MAKERS project pro­files dozens of oth­er women—like civ­il rights lawyer and founder of Children’s Defense Fund Mar­i­an Wright Edel­man—who nor­mal­ly fly under the mass-media radar, but whose pres­ence in the cul­ture has an enor­mous impact. Keep your eye on PBS listings—on Feb­ru­ary 26th, they will air a three-hour doc­u­men­tary called MAKERS: Women Who Make Amer­i­ca, which promis­es to tell the “remark­able sto­ry for the first time” of the sweep­ing progress Amer­i­can women have made over the last half-cen­tu­ry.

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness.

The Ultimate Full Moon Shot

The quick back­sto­ry: “Dean Pot­ter walks a high­line at Cathe­dral Peak as the sun sets and the moon ris­es. Shot from over 1 mile away with a Canon 800mm and 2X by Mikey Schae­fer. This shot was part of a big­ger project for Nation­al Geo­graph­ic called The Man Who Can Fly. ”

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Hear Ravel Play Ravel in 1922

Yes­ter­day we fea­tured a piano-roll record­ing of the French com­pos­er Claude Debussy play­ing his “La soirée dans Grenade” in 1913. Today we bring you a lyri­cal and melan­choly work record­ed in 1922 on a sim­i­lar device by Debussy’s younger friend and rival, Mau­rice Rav­el. It’s called “Oiseaux tristes,” or “Sad Birds.”

The impe­tus for com­pos­ing the piece came in 1904, when Rav­el heard a sec­ond-hand account of some­thing Debussy had said. Accord­ing to Alex­is Roland-Manuel, Rav­el’s friend and biog­ra­ph­er, Debussy had told the pianist Ricar­do Viñes that when writ­ing his exper­i­men­tal piece, “D’un cahi­er d’esquiss­es,” he had been “dream­ing of a kind of music whose form was so free that it would sound impro­vised, of works which would seem to have been torn out of a sketch­book.”

Viñes recount­ed Debussy’s state­ment at a meet­ing of “Les Apach­es,” a group of rad­i­cal writ­ers, artists and musi­cians, of which Rav­el was a mem­ber. Rav­el respond­ed by say­ing that he was ready to put Debussy’s dream into action. He drew his inspi­ra­tion from an expe­ri­ence he had one morn­ing in the for­est at Fontain­bleau. Rav­el’s friend and for­mer music school class­mate Émile Vuiller­moz remem­bered:

He was stay­ing with friends and one morn­ing he heard a black­bird whistling a tune and was enchant­ed by its ele­gant, melan­choly arabesque. He had mere­ly to tran­scribe this tune accu­rate­ly, with­out chang­ing a note, to pro­duce the limpid, poet­ic piece which spir­i­tu­alis­es the nos­tal­gic call of this French broth­er of the For­est Bird in Siegfried.

After the meet­ing, Rav­el set to work on the E Flat Minor “Oiseaux tristes,” which he ded­i­cat­ed to Viñes and includ­ed in his five-piece suite, Miroirs. “Oiseaux tristes is the most typ­i­cal of my way of think­ing,” Rav­el wrote in his 1928 auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal sketch. “It evokes birds lost in the oppres­sive­ness of a very dark for­est dur­ing the hottest hours of sum­mer.”

Rav­el record­ed “Oiseaux tristes” and four oth­er pieces in Lon­don on June 30, 1922, using a Duo-Art repro­duc­ing piano. Unlike the Welte-Mignon machine used by Debussy in 1913 (Rav­el also made a pair of record­ings on the Welte-Mignon at about the same time as Debussy) the Duo-Art sys­tem did not auto­mat­i­cal­ly record the dynam­ics of the per­for­mance. So when Rav­el played “Oiseaux tristes” at the stu­dio in Lon­don, there was an engi­neer seat­ed next to him at a con­sole, turn­ing dials to cap­ture the dynam­ic mod­u­la­tions in his play­ing. After­ward, Rav­el lis­tened to a play­back on a pianola and, sat­is­fied with the results, signed his name on the orig­i­nal roll.

The Enigma Machine: How Alan Turing Helped Break the Unbreakable Nazi Code

In 2001, none oth­er than Sir Mick Jag­ger bought the rights to a nov­el by Robert Har­ris called Enig­ma. The nov­el, a fic­tion­al­ized account of WWII British code­break­ers, then became a fea­ture film, writ­ten by Tom Stop­pard, pro­duced by Sir Mick, and star­ring Mr. Dougray Scott and Ms. Kate Winslett as der­ring-do Bletch­ley Park math­e­mati­cians and crypt­an­a­lysts employed in a race against time and the Nazis to break the fabled Enig­ma code before all hell breaks loose. It all sounds very dra­mat­ic (and I’ve heard the film is enter­tain­ing), but things didn’t hap­pen quite like that. Real­i­ty is nev­er so for­mu­la­ic or so good-look­ing. But the Enig­ma code was bro­ken, and the sto­ry of the code machine and its even­tu­al decryp­tion is fas­ci­nat­ing on its own terms. As Uni­ver­si­ty of Cam­bridge “Enig­ma Project Offi­cer” Dr. James Grime says–in the series of videos above and below–it’s a sto­ry of “how math­e­mati­cians can save lives.” Still with me?

Okay, so in the first video above, Dr. Grime gives us a thor­ough tour of the Enig­ma machine (Sir Mick owns one, by the way… but back to the his­to­ry…). Devel­oped by the Ger­mans, it’s a mar­velous encryp­tion method set into a small box that when opened resem­bles lit­tle more than a fan­cy WWII-era type­writer. Oh, but it’s clever, you see, because the Enig­ma machine (the one above belongs to sci­ence writer Simon Singh) trans­lates ordi­nary mes­sages into code through an inge­nious method by which no let­ter in the code ever repeats, mak­ing it almost impos­si­ble to decode in the ordi­nary ways. The machine was quite com­pli­cat­ed for its time; it works by send­ing the char­ac­ters typed by the keys through a series of circuits—first through three rotors like those on a com­bi­na­tion bike lock, but each with 26 places instead of ten.

Now at this point, the machine was noth­ing more than what was avail­able to any bank or busi­ness wish­ing to trans­mit trade secrets. But the Ger­man mil­i­tary machines had an extra lay­er of encod­ing: at the front of their machines was a “plug­board,” some­thing like a small switch­board. This allowed the cod­ing com­ing through the rotors to be rese­quenced for an extra lev­el of scram­bling. In the Ger­man mil­i­tary machines, the total num­ber of pos­si­ble com­bi­na­tions for mes­sage encryp­tions comes to a stag­ger­ing fig­ure in the quadrillions. (The exact num­ber? 158,962,555,217,826,360,000). There’s a lit­tle more to the machine than that, but Dr. Grime can explain it much bet­ter than I.

Of course, the Enig­ma Machine had to have a fatal flaw. Oth­er­wise, no nov­el, no movie, no dra­ma (and maybe no vic­to­ry?). What was it, you ask? Amaz­ing­ly, as you will learn above, the very thing that made the Enig­ma near­ly impos­si­ble to break, its abil­i­ty to encode mes­sages with­out ever repeat­ing a let­ter, also made the code deci­pher­able. But first, Alan Tur­ing had to step in. Sad­ly, Tur­ing is miss­ing from Enig­ma the film. (More sad­ly, he was dis­graced by the coun­try he served, which put him on tri­al for his sex­u­al­i­ty and humil­i­at­ed him to the point of sui­cide). But as Grime shows above, Tur­ing is one of the real heroes of the Enig­ma code sto­ry. Crypt­an­a­lysts ini­tial­ly dis­cov­ered that they could deci­pher ordi­nary words and phras­es (like “Heil Hitler”) in the Enig­ma mes­sages by match­ing them up with strings of ran­dom let­ters that nev­er repeat­ed.

But this was not enough. In order for the Enig­ma code to work for the Ger­mans, each operator—sender and receiver—had to have exact­ly the same set­tings on their rotors and plug­boards. (The mes­sages were trans­mit­ted over radio via Morse code). Each month had its own set­tings, print­ed on code sheets in sol­u­ble ink that eas­i­ly dis­solved in water. If the Allied code­break­ers deci­phered the set­tings, their decryp­tion would be use­less weeks lat­er. Fur­ther­more, the Ger­man navy had a more com­pli­cat­ed method of encod­ing than either the army or air force. The Pol­ish had devel­oped a machine called the Bombe, which could deci­pher army and air force codes, but not navy. What Tur­ing did, along with Gor­don Welch­man, was devel­op his own ver­sion of the Bombe machine, which allowed him to break any ver­sion of the Enig­ma code in under 20 min­utes since it bypassed most of the tedious guess­work and tri­al and error involved in ear­li­er by-hand meth­ods.

This is all very dra­mat­ic stuff, and we haven’t had one celebri­ty step in to dress it up. While I’m cer­tain that Enig­ma the film is a treat, I’m grate­ful to Dr. Grime for his engage­ment with the actu­al code­break­ing meth­ods and real per­son­al­i­ties involved.

A third video of extra footage and out­takes is avail­able here if you’re still hun­gry for more WWII code­break­ing secrets.

via Sci­ence Dump

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian. He recent­ly com­plet­ed a dis­ser­ta­tion on land, lit­er­a­ture, and labor.

Watch Moving Short Films of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera at the “Blue House”

Fans of Mex­i­can painter and pro­lif­ic self-por­traitist Fri­da Kahlo have one des­ti­na­tion above all oth­ers: the Blue House, her 1904 home, eas­i­ly iden­ti­fi­able by col­or, at the cor­ner of  Lon­dres and Allende in Mex­i­co City’s Coyoacán bor­ough. I myself dropped in a cou­ple years back, impressed at the atten­tion to detail in con­vert­ing the build­ing and its court­yard into the Fri­da Kahlo Muse­um. (It repaid the time spent in a line that, even in the mid­dle of a week­day, stretched down the block.) Oth­er vis­i­tors, clear­ly lovers of Kahlo’s work, walked the grounds try­ing to sense how much of the artist’s spir­i­tu­al pres­ence remained. Just above, you can see film of the Blue House in its pre-muse­um years, fea­tur­ing the liv­ing pres­ences of both Kahlo and her mural­ist hus­band Diego Rivera. Though the artists them­selves have long gone, the effort to pre­serve their domi­cile has clear­ly suc­ceed­ed; gift shop aside, these parts of its grounds look much the same today.

“Nobody will ever know how much I love Diego,” says a nar­ra­tor read­ing Kahlo’s words as the cam­era cap­tures her and Rivera togeth­er:

I don’t want any­thing to hurt him, noth­ing to both­er him and rob him of the ener­gy he needs for liv­ing — for liv­ing as he likes, for paint­ing, see­ing, lov­ing, eat­ing, sleep­ing, being by him­self, being with some­one. But I’d nev­er want him to be sad. If I had good health, I’d give him all of it. If I had youth, he could take it all.

The footage above was shot by a simul­ta­ne­ous­ly sig­nif­i­cant man in Kahlo’s life, the pho­tog­ra­ph­er Nick­o­las Muray, who put in a ten-year shift as her man on the side. Yet she pre­ferred Rivera to Muray as hus­band mate­r­i­al, divorc­ing and re-mar­ry­ing Rivera even as she spurned Muray’s pro­pos­als. But then, bohemi­an artists have always had their own way of han­dling mar­ried life; I recall one par­tic­u­lar framed Mex­i­can news­pa­per clip­ping dis­played at the Fri­da Kahlo Muse­um, a sto­ry about how, despite his rep­u­ta­tion for ugli­ness, Rivera nev­er once had to suf­fer in the female depart­ment.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Fri­da Kahlo and Diego Rivera Vis­it Leon Trot­sky in Mex­i­co, 1938

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 Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.


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