How “Space Oddity” Launched David Bowie to Stardom: Watch the Original Music Video From 1969

It may seem odd to con­tem­plate, but rock titan David Bowie’s rise to fame was a long, frus­trat­ing, stop-and-start affair until he burst onto the inter­na­tion­al scene as Zig­gy Star­dust (though he had some suc­cess with his two pri­or albums, the excel­lent The Man Who Sold the World and Hunky Dory). This is part­ly due to poor man­age­ment, and part­ly due to Bowie’s own dif­fi­cul­ty in find­ing a style that fit his ambi­tions. His first hit, “Space Odd­i­ty,” from his sec­ond, 1969, album of the same name, promised great things. (That record, orig­i­nal­ly called, like his first, just David Bowie, was renamed after the song did the Sev­en­ties equiv­a­lent of viral.) Most peo­ple who grew up with Bowie would tell you the song is a water­shed moment in their dis­cov­ery of pop music’s poten­tial. I recall dis­cov­er­ing Bowie at a young age through “Space Odd­i­ty,” and being giv­en the album on cas­sette as a birth­day present. Like many peo­ple, I was a lit­tle flum­moxed by the record. None of it resem­bles the sin­gle, which isn’t nec­es­sar­i­ly a bad qual­i­ty in gen­er­al, but in this case, it’s hard to know what to make of that strange col­lec­tion of some­times com­ic, Bea­t­les-esque pop frag­ments (“Don’t Sit Down”), some­times cool pro­gres­sive rock (“Janine”), and some­times almost medieval, Judy Collins-like hip­py folk (“Mem­o­ry of a Free Fes­ti­val,” “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud”). I grew to love it, but the album’s eclec­ti­cism did­n’t win many over.

Still, near­ly every­one knows and loves the album ver­sion of “Space Odd­i­ty.” But like a great deal of Bowie’s ear­ly work, the song exists in an ear­li­er, more ten­ta­tive ver­sion. Ini­tial­ly record­ed short­ly after his first album, 1967’s David Bowie—which Bowie biog­ra­ph­er David Buck­ley called “the vinyl equiv­a­lent of the mad­woman in the attic”—the song end­ed up on an abortive pro­mo­tion­al film com­mis­sioned by Bowie’s pro­duc­er, Ken­neth Pitt. Called Love You Till Tues­day, after the sin­gle from the first album, the film fin­ished shoot­ing in 1969, but didn’t see the light of day until 1984, long after Bowie hit it big.

The film ver­sion of “Space Odd­i­ty” (first video) dif­fers sig­nif­i­cant­ly in sound and vision from the one right above. For one thing, Bowie, who wore a wig for the extent of film­ing because he’d shorn off his hair to audi­tion for a role, looks decid­ed­ly less, well, like a rock star. As “Ground Con­trol,” his Janis Joplin glass­es clash odd­ly with an arty t‑shirt and what looks like a child’s base­ball cap perched atop his wig, both embla­zoned with “GC.” He stands cross-armed and awk­ward, lip synch­ing between space sequences. Of the lat­ter, “Major Tom” parts, one YouTube com­menter quips, “We have no bud­get, no props, only bak­ing foil and corn­flake pack­ets.… Oh well make the video any­way.” Sums things up pret­ty well.

Even more so than those who bought Space Odd­i­ty after hear­ing its name­sake sin­gle, any­one who heard this ear­ly ver­sion, then went and bought Bowie’s first album would have been thor­ough­ly per­plexed. ‘67’s David Bowie is a very strange, though some­times very intrigu­ing, record, large­ly influ­enced by the musi­cal com­e­dy of pop­u­lar Eng­lish enter­tain­er Antho­ny New­ley. Watch the film’s title track (and open­ing sequence), “Love You Till Tues­day” below, with Bowie, in wig and frilly Austin Pow­ers suit, doing some weird Tom Jones thing that just real­ly does­n’t work.

Had Bowie fol­lowed this tra­jec­to­ry, instead of find­ing his voice in the space­rock of his first big sin­gle, it’s pret­ty like­ly no one would have heard from him again. Lucky for us, the young pop star was noth­ing if not per­sis­tent.  And lucky for us, he still is. The 66-year-old Bowie just released his first sin­gle in a decade, the con­tem­pla­tive “Where Are We Now?” with an album, The Next Day, com­ing in March.

Relat­ed Con­tent

The Sto­ry of Zig­gy Star­dust: How David Bowie Cre­at­ed the Char­ac­ter that Made Him Famous

David Bowie Cel­e­brates 66th Birth­day with First New Song in a Decade, Plus Vin­tage Videos

David Bowie’s First Amer­i­can Fan Let­ter And His Evolv­ing Views of the U.S. (1967–1997)

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

NASA Sends Image of the Mona Lisa to the Moon and Back

The same super-fast laser tech­nol­o­gy that sent clear images of Mars back to Earth just cleared anoth­er hur­dle clos­er to home by send­ing an image of the Mona Lisa to the sur­face of the moon and back again.

Sci­en­tists at NASA want­ed to know whether they could use laser puls­es to “com­mu­ni­cate” with the lunar sur­face using the same tool that tracks the posi­tion of the Lunar Recon­nais­sance Orbiter.

The team sent a dig­i­tized ver­sion of Leonardo’s famous­ly inscrutable sig­no­ra from the God­dard Space Cen­ter in Mary­land 240,000 miles up to a laser trans­mit­ter aboard the orbit­ing space­craft. Pix­els trav­eled one at a time and were adjust­ed for bright­ness by con­trolled delays in their arrival time. The team cor­rect­ed errors in the image using com­mon DVD and CD tech­niques.

Pret­ty much every­body knows what the Mona Lisa looks like, so maybe that’s why they picked her face, instead of, well, mine. Maybe NASA is hop­ing her name will be changed to Moona Lisa.

The Lunar Recon­nais­sance Orbiter (explained above) began its lunar orbit near­ly four years ago. Laser puls­es beam down to the moon and then bounce back to form images of the sur­face. Like those star­tling pic­tures of Mars, laser tech­nol­o­gy is help­ing devel­op a crys­tal clear topo­graph­i­cal map of the moon, includ­ing the tracks of two astro­nauts’ unsuc­cess­ful trek to the top of a crater and the site of a lost Russ­ian rover.

The Mona Lisa’s trip to the moon is impor­tant because the image was sent at the same time as laser puls­es that track the craft’s position—the first out­er space con­fer­ence call—and it sets the stage for future high-data trans­mis­sions between Earth and its satel­lite explor­ers.

via The Atlantic

Relat­ed Con­tent

NASA Presents “The Earth as Art” in a Free eBook and Free iPad App

Leonard Nimoy Nar­rates Short Film About NASA’s Dawn: A Voy­age to the Ori­gins of the Solar Sys­tem

NASA’s “Spot the Sta­tion” Will Text or Email You When the Space Sta­tion Pass­es Over Your Home

Kate Rix writes about dig­i­tal media and edu­ca­tion. Vis­it her at .

Lovers and Philosophers — Jean-Paul Sartre & Simone de Beauvoir Together in 1967

Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beau­voir. They were the intel­lec­tu­al pow­er cou­ple of the 20th cen­tu­ry. Some have called Sartre the father of Exis­ten­tial­ism. But per­haps it’s more accu­rate to call him the chief pop­u­lar­iz­er of the philo­soph­i­cal move­ment. And Simone de Beau­voir, she wrote The Sec­ond Sex, the sprawl­ing 1949 tome that laid the intel­lec­tu­al foun­da­tion for sec­ond-wave fem­i­nism that explod­ed dur­ing the 1960s.

The two philoso­phers first became an item in Octo­ber 1929, but it was nev­er a tra­di­tion­al rela­tion­ship. They nei­ther mar­ried nor shared the same liv­ing quar­ters, and they famous­ly had an open rela­tion­ship. But, as de Beau­voir said, “The com­rade­ship that weld­ed our lives togeth­er made a super­flu­ous mock­ery of any oth­er bond we might have forged for our­selves.”

They were a pow­er­ful cou­ple, writes Louis Menand in The New York­er, “with inde­pen­dent lives, who met in cafés, where they wrote their books and saw their friends at sep­a­rate tables… but who main­tained a kind of soul mar­riage.” What­ev­er your per­son­al views, you need to con­sid­er this: The rela­tion­ship worked for Sartre and de Beau­voir for 50 years.

Despite their celebri­ty, we’ve rarely come across footage of the two philoso­phers togeth­er. So we’re bring­ing you this — a rare clip from a 1967 doc­u­men­tary filmed at Sartre’s Mont­par­nasse high-rise apart­ment, over­look­ing the ceme­tery where the two philoso­phers were even­tu­al­ly buried. Some­what fit­ting­ly, we see the two intel­lec­tu­als, but nev­er in the same frame. You can pur­chase the com­plete film for edu­ca­tion­al use here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jean-Paul Sartre Breaks Down the Bad Faith of Intel­lec­tu­als

Jean-Paul Sartre Writes a Script for John Huston’s Film on Freud (1958)

Sartre, Hei­deg­ger, Niet­zsche: Three Philoso­phers in Three Hours

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“Moon Hoax Not”: Short Film Explains Why It Was Impossible to Fake the Moon Landing

S.G. Collins does­n’t trust the Unit­ed States gov­ern­ment. They “lie all the time, about all kinds of things,” he insists, “and if they haven’t lied to you today, maybe they haven’t had cof­fee yet.” Like some of those who express a sim­i­lar dis­trust, he claims he has no way to ver­i­fy that NASA land­ed on the moon in 1969. But unlike most of that sub­set, he does­n’t think the gov­ern­ment could have pulled off a con­vinc­ing hoax about it. In oth­er words, Amer­i­ca “did have the tech­ni­cal abil­i­ty, not to men­tion the req­ui­site mad­ness, to send three guys to the moon and back. They did not have the tech­nol­o­gy to fake it on video.” Calm­ly, method­i­cal­ly, with a dead­pan wit, Collins uses the thir­teen min­utes of Moon Hoax Not to explain exact­ly why, as improb­a­ble as the real moon land­ing sounds, a fake moon land­ing would have been down­right impos­si­ble.

“The lat­er you were born,” Collins says, “the more all-pow­er­ful movie mag­ic seems.” Hol­ly­wood could now fake dozens of moon land­ings every day, but they did­n’t always have that abil­i­ty. Mar­shal­ing knowl­edge accrued over thir­ty years as a pho­tog­ra­ph­er, he address­es each of the points that moon-land­ing con­spir­a­cy the­o­rists com­mon­ly cite as visu­al evi­dence of the sup­posed fraud. He also brings to bear facts from the his­to­ry of video tech­nol­o­gy, such as 1969’s com­plete lack of the high-speed video cam­eras, need­ed to shoot the sort of slow motion nec­es­sary to cre­ate the illu­sion of low grav­i­ty. And what if they’d shot the entire Apol­lo 11 tele­cast on film instead? Collins also knows, and names, exact­ly the prob­lems even the most ambi­tious, tech­no­log­i­cal­ly advanced char­la­tans would have encoun­tered, even—as in moon-land­ing hoax mock­u­men­tary Dark Side of the Moon—with Stan­ley Kubrick on their side.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dark Side of the Moon: A Mock­u­men­tary on Stan­ley Kubrick and the Moon Land­ing Hoax

Michio Kaku Schools Takes on Moon Land­ing-Con­spir­a­cy Believ­er on His Sci­ence Fan­tas­tic Pod­cast

The Moon Dis­as­ter That Wasn’t: Nixon’s Speech In Case Apol­lo 11 Failed to Return

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.

Gimme Shelter: Watch the Classic Documentary of the Rolling Stones’ Disastrous Concert at Altamont

It’s often remem­bered as the day the Six­ties died. On Decem­ber 6, 1969, the Rolling Stones and a group of West Coast bands put on a free con­cert at the Alta­mont Race­way near San Fran­cis­co. The con­cert was billed as “Wood­stock West,” but instead of being anoth­er gath­er­ing of peace, love and music, it was more like a bad trip.

The event was hasti­ly put togeth­er by the Stones to cel­e­brate the end of their Amer­i­can tour, their first with gui­tarist Mick Tay­lor. The stage at the venue was unusu­al­ly low and was sit­u­at­ed at the bot­tom of a hill. To keep the audi­ence of 300,000 peo­ple from engulf­ing the stage, some­one had the bright idea of enlist­ing the Hells Angels motor­cy­cle gang to form a secu­ri­ty cor­don around the stage in exchange for (essen­tial­ly) all the beer they could drink.

As the con­cert descend­ed into chaos, the Hells Angels beat peo­ple with pool cues and motor­cy­cle chains. A gui­tarist and singer for the Jef­fer­son Air­plane, Mar­ty Balin, was knocked uncon­scious. When a man in the audi­ence bran­dished a pis­tol dur­ing an alter­ca­tion while the Stones were onstage, he was stabbed and beat­en to death by mem­bers of the gang.

The whole sor­ry episode is cap­tured in Gimme Shel­ter, the clas­sic doc­u­men­tary by the broth­ers Albert and David Maysles and Char­lotte Zwerin. The film was released in 1970 and can be seen above in its entire­ty. Gimme Shel­ter con­tains ele­ments of a typ­i­cal rock and roll doc­u­men­tary, with footage of the Stones on the road and play­ing a con­cert at Madi­son Square Gar­den in New York. But the main focus is Alta­mont. The Maysles broth­ers hired a large team of cam­era­men for the event, includ­ing film­mak­er Robert Elf­strom, Mag­num pho­tog­ra­ph­er Elliott Erwitt and a young George Lucas.

Gimme Shel­ter is a fas­ci­nat­ing record of the Six­ties coun­ter­cul­ture as it was falling apart. The last third of the pic­ture is painful to watch but dif­fi­cult to turn away from. The hubris and naiveté of the time are cap­tured in a scene before the event, when Mick Jag­ger tells a group of reporters what Alta­mont is all about: “It’s cre­at­ing a sort of micro­cos­mic soci­ety, which sets an exam­ple to the rest of Amer­i­ca as to how one can behave in large gath­er­ings.”

Relat­ed Con­tent

The Rolling Stones Jam With Their Idol, Mud­dy Waters

The Rolling Stones at 50: Mick, Kei­th, Char­lie & Ron­nie Revis­it Their Favorite Songs

Pope John Paul II Takes Batting Practice in California, 1987

Pope John Paul II had a mixed lega­cy. Some good, some bad. But what­ev­er your take on him, you have to give him this — the Pon­tiff could swing a good bat. Vis­it­ing Cal­i­for­nia in 1987, the 67 year-old Pope head­ed to the bat­ting cages and start­ed lin­ing sin­gles and dou­bles, maybe even a few triples. As the video pro­ceeds, we dis­cov­er that the switch-hit­ting Pope had pre­vi­ous­ly honed his bat­ting skills in the Vat­i­can Soft­ball League. The clip con­cludes with the gra­cious hosts giv­ing the Pope the roy­al treat­ment, treat­ing him to a nice 1980s-style ener­gy drink in a sty­ro­foam cup. Pret­ty posh. h/t Metafil­ter

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Walter Lewin, the Original Star of Open Education, Returns with a Brand New Physics MOOC

It seems like not a week goes by with­out The New York Times writ­ing a gush­ing pro­file about Cours­era. It’s hard to believe, but back dur­ing anoth­er day, there was anoth­er dar­ling of the open edu­ca­tion move­ment. And his name was Wal­ter Lewin. In a 2007 pro­file, the same New York Times called him “an inter­na­tion­al Inter­net guru” and high­light­ed his wild­ly pop­u­lar physics cours­es record­ed at MIT. Those cours­es — find them in our col­lec­tion of Free Online Physics Cours­es, part of our col­lec­tion of 825 Free Online Cours­es — were wide­ly dis­trib­uted through YouTube and iTunes. Now the MOOCs have come along, and Lewin isn’t let­ting him­self get swept to the side. On Feb­ru­ary 18, Lewin and his MIT col­leagues will launch a new course on edX called Elec­tric­i­ty and Mag­net­ism. Draw­ing on Lewin’s famous lec­ture series, Elec­tric­i­ty and Mag­net­ism will run 17 weeks, requir­ing stu­dents to put in about 9–12 hours per week. You can reserve your free seat in the course today and watch Lewin do what he does best.

If physics isn’t your thing, you can find oth­er MOOCs get­ting start­ed lat­er this month, or in Feb­ru­ary.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Best Lines of Wal­ter Lewin, MIT Physics Prof & Web Star

Michio Kaku Explains the Physics Behind Absolute­ly Every­thing

Physics: Free Cours­es

 

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Watch Bill Murray Perform a Satirical Anti-Technology Rant (1982)

Above you’ll find find a clip from Wired In, a tele­vi­sion show pro­duced in the ear­ly eight­ies meant to ori­ent view­ers in the midst of that heady era of tech­no­log­i­cal inno­va­tion. Alas, the pro­gram nev­er aired; only a demo reel and some raw footage sur­vive. But those remains fea­ture no less a comedic lumi­nary than Bill Mur­ray, who even 32 years ago must have been quite a catch for a pilot like this. Though not known for his tech savvy, he has built a rep­u­ta­tion for mak­ing any­thing sound hilar­i­ous by virtue of his per­sona alone. This skill he applies to a par­o­dy of the every­man’s anti-tech­nol­o­gy dia­tribe, as com­mon­ly heard then as it is today — or as it no doubt was 32 years before the shoot, or will be 32 years from now. “Who thinks up all this high-tech stuff any­way?” Mur­ray demands. “They start with the dig­i­tal watch­es. Tells you the time in num­bers, the exact time to the sec­ond. 3:12 and 42 sec­onds. Who needs to know that stuff? I don’t!”

Keep watch­ing, and that Wired In clip heads to Las Vegas to demon­strate for us the won­der of sol­id-state car­tridge soft­ware for the Texas Instru­ments Home Com­put­er. But if you’d rather mar­vel at more of Mur­ray’s par­tic­u­lar kind of craft, watch the full sev­en min­utes of rant takes above. His riffs, seem­ing­ly script­ed as well as impro­vised, of vary­ing moods and pitched at vary­ing ener­gy lev­els, take him from those dig­i­tal watch­es to auto­mat­ed car fac­to­ries to R2-D2 to talk­ing dash­boards to the one idea he does like, robots that ride along­side you in your car’s pas­sen­ger’s seat. “You know what?” he con­cludes, “They’ll nev­er do it — because it makes too much sense.” The mak­ers of Wired In clear­ly had a pre­scient­ly sar­don­ic atti­tude about the com­ing waves of tech-relat­ed anx­i­ety; the pilot also includes a jab at the notion of video game addic­tion from “Pac-Man freak” Lily Tom­lin.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Bill Mur­ray Reads Wal­lace Stevens Poems — “The Plan­et on The Table” and “A Rab­bit as King of the Ghosts”

Fact Check­ing Bill Mur­ray: A Short, Com­ic Film from Sun­dance 2008

Bill Mur­ray Reads Poet­ry at a Con­struc­tion Site

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.

Arthur Conan Doyle & The Cottingley Fairies: How Two Young Girls Fooled Sherlock Holmes’ Creator

Cottingley_Fairies_1_article

In a pre­vi­ous post, we brought you what is like­ly the only appear­ance on film of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—an inter­view in which he talks of Sher­lock Holmes and spir­i­tu­al­ism. Although Conan Doyle cre­at­ed one of the most hard­nosed ratio­nal char­ac­ters in lit­er­a­ture, the author him­self lat­er became con­vert­ed to a vari­ety of super­nat­ur­al beliefs, and he was tak­en in by a few hoax­es. One such famous hoax was the case of the so-called “Cot­tin­g­ley Fairies.” As you can see from the pho­to above (from 1917), the case involved what Conan Doyle believed was pho­to­graph­ic evi­dence of the exis­tence of fairies, doc­u­ment­ed by two young York­shire girls, Elsie Wright and her cousin Frances Grif­fiths (the girl in the pho­to above). Accord­ing to The Haunt­ed Muse­um, the sto­ry of Doyle’s involve­ment goes some­thing like this:

In 1920, Conan Doyle received a let­ter from a Spir­i­tu­al­ist friend, Feli­cia Scatcherd, who informed of some pho­tographs which proved the exis­tence of fairies in York­shire. Conan Doyle asked his friend Edward Gard­ner to go down and inves­ti­gate and Gard­ner soon found him­self in the pos­ses­sion of sev­er­al pho­tos which showed very small female fig­ures with trans­par­ent wings. The pho­tog­ra­phers had been two young girls, Elsie Wright and her cousin, Frances Grif­fiths. They claimed they had seen the fairies on an ear­li­er occa­sion and had gone back with a cam­era and pho­tographed them. They had been tak­en in July and Sep­tem­ber 1917, near the York­shire vil­lage of Cot­tin­g­ley.

The two cousins claimed to have seen the fairies around the “beck” (a local term for “stream”) on an almost dai­ly basis. At the time, they claimed to have no inten­tion of seek­ing fame or noto­ri­ety. Elsie had bor­rowed her father’s cam­era on a host Sat­ur­day in July 1917 to take pic­tures of Frances and the beck fairies.

Elsie’s father, a skep­tic, filed the pho­tos away as a joke, but her moth­er, Pol­ly Wright, believed, and brought the images to Gard­ner (there were only two at first, not “sev­er­al”), who cir­cu­lat­ed them through the British spir­i­tu­al­ist com­mu­ni­ty. When Conan Doyle saw them in 1920, he gave each girl a cam­era and com­mis­sioned them to take more. They pro­duced three addi­tion­al prints. The online Muse­um of Hoax­es details each of the five pho­tos from the two ses­sions with text from Edward Gard­ner’s 1945 Theo­soph­i­cal Soci­ety pub­li­ca­tion The Cot­tin­g­ley Pho­tographs and Their Sequel.

These pho­tos swayed thou­sands over the course of the cen­tu­ry, but arch-skep­tic James Ran­di seem­ing­ly debunked them for good when he point­ed out that the fairies were ringers for fig­ures in the 1915 children’s book Princess Mary’s Gift Book, and that the prints show dis­crep­an­cies in expo­sure times that clear­ly point to delib­er­ate manip­u­la­tion. The two women, Elsie and Frances, final­ly con­fessed in the ear­ly 1980s, fifty years after Conan Doyle’s involve­ment, that they had faked the pho­tos with paper cutouts. Watch Ran­di and Elsie Wright dis­cuss the trick­ery above.

 

fairy_51

The daugh­ter and grand­daugh­ter of Grif­fiths pos­sess the orig­i­nal prints and one of Conan Doyle’s cam­eras. Both once believed that the fairies were real, but as the host explains, they were not sim­ply cred­u­lous fools. Through­out much of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, peo­ple looked at the cam­era as a sci­en­tif­ic instru­ment, unaware of the ease with which images could be manip­u­lat­ed and staged. But even as Frances admit­ted to the fak­ery of the first four pho­tos, she insist­ed that num­ber five was gen­uine. Every­one on the show agrees, includ­ing the host. Cer­tain­ly Conan Doyle and his friend Edward Gard­ner thought so. In the lat­ter’s descrip­tion of #5, he wrote:

This is espe­cial­ly remark­able as it con­tains a fea­ture quite unknown to the girls. The sheath or cocoon appear­ing in the mid­dle of the grass­es had not been seen by them before, and they had no idea what it was. Fairy observers of Scot­land and the New For­est, how­ev­er, were famil­iar with it and described it as a mag­net­ic bath, woven very quick­ly by the fairies and used after dull weath­er, in the autumn espe­cial­ly. The inte­ri­or seems to be mag­ne­tised in some man­ner that stim­u­lates and pleas­es.

I must say, I remain seri­ous­ly uncon­vinced. Even if I were inclined to believe in fairies, pho­to num­ber five looks as pho­ny to me as num­bers one through four. But the Antiques Road­show appear­ance does add a fun new lay­er to the sto­ry and an air of mys­tery I can’t help but find intrigu­ing, as Conan Doyle did in 1920, if only for the his­tor­i­cal angle of the three gen­er­a­tions of Grif­fiths who held onto the leg­end and the arti­facts. Oh, and the appraisal for the five orig­i­nal pho­tos and Arthur Conan Doyle’s cam­era? Twen­ty-five to thir­ty-thou­sand pounds—not too shab­by for an ado­les­cent prank.

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

What Entered the Public Domain in 2013? Zip, Nada, Zilch!

2013whatcouldhavebeencollage2Last year, key works by James Joyce and Vir­ginia Woolf final­ly entered the pub­lic domain, at least in Europe. (Find them in our col­lec­tions of Free eBooks and Free Audio Books.) This year, we got pret­ty much bup­kis, espe­cial­ly if we’re talk­ing about the Unit­ed States. Over at the web­site run by The Cen­ter for the Study of the Pub­lic Domain at Duke Uni­ver­si­ty, they write:

What is enter­ing the pub­lic domain in the Unit­ed States? Noth­ing. Once again, we will have noth­ing to cel­e­brate this Jan­u­ary 1st. Not a sin­gle pub­lished work is enter­ing the pub­lic domain this year. Or next year. In fact, in the Unit­ed States, no pub­li­ca­tion will enter the pub­lic domain until 2019. Even more shock­ing­ly, the Supreme Court ruled in 2012 that Con­gress can take back works from the pub­lic domain. Could Shake­speare, Pla­to, or Mozart be pulled back into copy­right? The Supreme Court gave no rea­son to think that they could not be.

The Cen­ter then goes on to enu­mer­ate the works that would have entered the com­mons had we lived under the copy­right laws that pre­vailed until 1978. Under those laws, “thou­sands of works from 1956 would be enter­ing the pub­lic domain. They range from the films The Best Things in Life Are FreeAround the World in 80 DaysFor­bid­den Plan­et, and The Man Who Knew Too Much, to the Phillip K. Dick’s The Minor­i­ty Report and Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Jour­ney into Night, to sem­i­nal arti­cles on arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence.” Have a look at some of the oth­ers, sev­er­al of which appear in the mosa­ic above.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lawrence Lessig’s Last Speech on Free Cul­ture. Watch it Online.

Lawrence Lessig Speaks Once Again About Copy­right and Cre­ativ­i­ty

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National Geographic Photographer Steve McCurry Shoots the Very Last Roll of Kodachrome

Ask a pho­tog­ra­ph­er from the cen­tu­ry that just passed to name his or her favorite film, and the answer, very often, will be Kodachrome.

The crisp emul­sion, beau­ti­ful­ly sat­u­rat­ed col­ors and  archival sta­bil­i­ty of Kodachrome made it a sen­ti­men­tal favorite among pho­tog­ra­phers long after oth­er, more prac­ti­cal col­or films had all but pushed it out of the mar­ket­place. The prob­lem was, the very qual­i­ties that made the film spe­cial stemmed from a high­ly cum­ber­some tech­ni­cal process. Kodachrome was a “non-sub­stan­tive” film, mean­ing the dye cou­plers were not built into the emul­sion, as they are in oth­er col­or films, but had to be added dur­ing devel­op­ment. The process was com­plex, and few labs could afford to offer it. Even before the dig­i­tal rev­o­lu­tion, Kodachrome was an endan­gered species.

So while it came as an emo­tion­al shock to many pho­tog­ra­phers, it was no real sur­prise when the East­man Kodak Com­pa­ny announced in 2009 that it was halt­ing pro­duc­tion of Kodachrome. One of the pho­tog­ra­phers who had long-since moved on to dig­i­tal imag­ing but who was sad­dened by the demise of Kodachrome was Steve McCur­ry, an award-win­ning pho­to­jour­nal­ist for Nation­al Geo­graph­ic who is best known for his haunt­ing 1984 image (shot on Kodachrome) of a 12-year-old Afghan refugee girl with pierc­ing green eyes. When McCur­ry heard the news, he arranged to obtain the very last roll of Kodachrome to come off the assem­bly line at the Kodak plant in Rochester, New York. The chal­lenge, then, was this: What do you do with the last 36 expo­sures of a leg­endary film?

The half-hour doc­u­men­tary above from Nation­al Geo­graph­ic tells the sto­ry of that roll and how McCur­ry used it. The film­mak­ers fol­lowed the pho­tog­ra­ph­er on an odyssey that began at the fac­to­ry in Rochester and end­ed at a lab­o­ra­to­ry (the last Kodachrome lab open) in a small town in Kansas. Over the course of about six weeks, from late May to ear­ly July, 2010, McCur­ry trav­eled halfway around the world to make those final 36 expo­sures. The result­ing pho­tographs iclude street scenes in New York and Kansas, por­traits of a movie star (Robert De Niro) in New York, intel­lec­tu­als and eth­nic tribes­men in India, col­leagues in Turkey and New York, and one of him­self. It’s a remark­able take. Although a few of the shots appear spon­ta­neous, most are the result of care­ful plan­ning. McCur­ry donat­ed all 36 slides to the George East­man House Inter­na­tion­al Muse­um of Pho­tog­ra­phy and Film, but you can see almost all of the pho­tos online at the Van­i­ty Fair Web site. As McCur­ry tells the mag­a­zine:

I’ve been shoot­ing dig­i­tal for years, but I don’t think you can make a bet­ter pho­to­graph under cer­tain con­di­tions than you can with Kodachrome. If you have good light and you’re at a fair­ly high shut­ter speed, it’s going to be a bril­liant col­or pho­to­graph. It had a great col­or palette. It was­n’t too gar­ish. Some films are like you’re on a drug or some­thing. Velvia made every­thing so sat­u­rat­ed and wild­ly over-the-top, too elec­tric. Kodachrome had more poet­ry in it, a soft­ness, an ele­gance. With dig­i­tal pho­tog­ra­phy, you gain many ben­e­fits [but] you have to put in post-pro­duc­tion. [With Kodachrome] you take it out of the box and the pic­tures are already bril­liant.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How Film Was Made: A Kodak Nos­tal­gia Moment


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