The First Photograph Ever Taken (1826)

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In his­to­ries of ear­ly pho­tog­ra­phy, Louis Daguerre faith­ful­ly appears as one of the fathers of the medi­um. His patent­ed process, the daguerreo­type, in wide use for near­ly twen­ty years in the ear­ly 19th cen­tu­ry, pro­duced so many of the images we asso­ciate with the peri­od, includ­ing famous pho­tographs of Abra­ham Lin­coln, Edgar Allan Poe, Emi­ly Dick­in­son, and John Brown. But had things gone dif­fer­ent­ly, we might know bet­ter the hard­er-to-pro­nounce name of his one­time part­ner Joseph Nicéphore Niépce, who pro­duced the first known pho­to­graph ever, tak­en in 1826.

Some­thing of a gen­tle­man inven­tor, Niépce (below) began exper­i­ment­ing with lith­o­g­ra­phy and with that ancient device, the cam­era obscu­ra, in 1816. Even­tu­al­ly, after much tri­al and error, Niépce devel­oped his own pho­to­graph­ic process, which he called “heli­og­ra­phy.”

He began by mix­ing chem­i­cals on a flat pewter plate, then plac­ing it inside a cam­era. After expos­ing the plate to light for eight hours, the inven­tor then washed and dried it. What remained was the image we see above, tak­en, as Niépce wrote, from “the room where I work” on his coun­try estate and now housed at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Texas at Austin’s Har­ry Ran­som Cen­ter.

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At the Ran­som Cen­ter web­site, you can see a short video describ­ing Niépce’s house and show­ing how schol­ars recre­at­ed the van­tage point from which he took the pic­ture. Anoth­er video offers insight into the process Niépce invent­ed to cre­ate his “heli­o­graph.” In 1827, Niépce trav­eled to Eng­land to vis­it his broth­er. While there, with the assis­tance of Eng­lish botanist Fran­cis Bauer, he pre­sent­ed a paper on his new inven­tion to the Roy­al Soci­ety. His find­ings were reject­ed, how­ev­er, because he opt­ed not to ful­ly reveal the details, hop­ing to make eco­nom­ic gains with a pro­pri­etary method. Niépce left the pewter image with Bauer and returned to France, where he short­ly after agreed to a ten-year part­ner­ship with Daguerre in 1829.

Sad­ly for Niépce, his heli­o­graph would not pro­duce the finan­cial or tech­no­log­i­cal suc­cess he envi­sioned, and he died just four years lat­er in 1833. Daguerre, of course, went on to devel­op his famous process in 1839 and passed into his­to­ry, but we should remem­ber Niépce’s efforts, and mar­vel at what he was able to achieve on his own with lim­it­ed mate­ri­als and no train­ing or prece­dent. Daguerre may receive much of the cred­it, but it was the “sci­en­tif­i­cal­ly-mind­ed gen­tle­man” Niépce and his heli­og­ra­phy that led—writes the Ran­som Center’s Head of Pho­to­graph­ic Con­ser­va­tion Bar­bara Brown—to “the inven­tion of the new medi­um.”

Niepce Reproduction

Niépce’s pewter plate image was re-dis­cov­ered in 1952 by Hel­mut and Ali­son Gern­sheim, who pub­lished an arti­cle on the find in The Pho­to­graph­ic Jour­nal. There­after, the Gern­sheims had the East­man Kodak Com­pa­ny cre­ate the repro­duc­tion above. This image’s “pointil­lis­tic effect,” writes Brown, “is due to the repro­duc­tion process,” and the image “was touched up with water­col­ors by [Hel­mut] Gern­sheim him­self in order to bring it as close as pos­si­ble to his approx­i­ma­tion of how he felt the orig­i­nal should appear in repro­duc­tion.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2015.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The First “Self­ie” In His­to­ry Tak­en by Robert Cor­nelius, a Philadel­phia Chemist, in 1839

The First Known Pho­to­graph of Peo­ple Hav­ing a Beer (1843)

The Old­est Known Pho­tographs of Rome (1841–1871)

Some of the Old­est Pho­tos You Will Ever See: Dis­cov­er Pho­tographs of Greece, Egypt, Turkey & Oth­er Mediter­ranean Lands (1840s)

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

The Story Told on the Famous Bayeux Tapestry Explained from Start to Finish

They say that his­to­ry is writ­ten by the vic­tors, but that isn’t always true: some­times it’s embroi­dered by the vic­tors. Such was the case with the Bayeux Tapes­try, which com­mem­o­rates the build-up to and suc­cess­ful exe­cu­tion of the Nor­man con­quest of Eng­land in 1066. Cre­at­ed not long after the events it depicts in what we now call the Unit­ed King­dom, the near­ly 230-foot-long cloth has been kept in France for most of its exis­tence. But as report­ed by Hyper­al­ler­gic’s Isa Far­fan, the Bayeux Tapes­try is now set for a year­long sojourn back in its home­land, and at no less an august insti­tu­tion than the British Muse­um, after spend­ing the bet­ter part of a mil­len­ni­um abroad.

In a style that may strike twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry view­ers as a pre­de­ces­sor to the graph­ic nov­el — or even to the straight-ahead com­ic book, with its grotesque exag­ger­a­tions — the Bayeux Tapes­try’s embroi­dery tells the sto­ry, writes Far­fan, of “the vic­to­ry of William the Con­queror, the Duke of Nor­mandy, over Eng­land in the Bat­tle of Hast­ings. William assem­bled a fleet of ships filled with thou­sands of men and hors­es to cross the Eng­lish Chan­nel and suc­cess­ful­ly claimed the throne from the last Anglo-Sax­on king, Harold God­win­son.”

All this takes place over “58 scenes fea­tur­ing more than 600 wool-thread­ed peo­ple and 200 hors­es. Though it focus­es on the his­tor­i­cal bat­tle, the embroi­dery also reveals fix­tures of broad­er eleventh-cen­tu­ry life, includ­ing archi­tec­ture and armor, and includes almost 400 Latin words accom­pa­ny­ing the images.”

Those words are inter­pret­ed by YouTu­ber Lindy­beige in the video above, which offers a humor­ous ani­mat­ed tour of the full length of the Bayeux Tapes­try — or, in any case, a very close repli­ca made in Eng­land in the mid-nine­teenth cen­tu­ry. The elab­o­rate­ness of its treat­ment under­scores that the Nor­man con­quest was one of the most momen­tous events, if not the most momen­tous event, in all of Eng­lish his­to­ry; the extent of its glo­ri­fi­ca­tion under­scores how much the con­querors felt the need to legit­imize their rule. Noth­ing would ever be the same for Eng­lish cul­ture, Eng­lish law, and even, as recent­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, the Eng­lish lan­guage. If you go to Lon­don next year to behold the Bayeux Tapes­try for your­self, you’ll hear the usu­al ambi­ent grum­bling about the state of Eng­land — with a refreshed empha­sis, per­haps, on how wrong it all went after 1066.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Bayeux Tapes­try Gets Dig­i­tized: View the Medieval Tapes­try in High Res­o­lu­tion, Down to the Indi­vid­ual Thread

Behold a Cre­ative Ani­ma­tion of the Bayeux Tapes­try

How Eng­land First Became Eng­land: An Ani­mat­ed His­to­ry

The Bayeux Tapes­try Ani­mat­ed

The Entire His­to­ry of the British Isles Ani­mat­ed: 42,000 BCE to Today

Con­struct Your Own Bayeux Tapes­try with This Free Online App

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.

The Entire History of English in 22 Minutes

When we speak Eng­lish, we might say we’re speak­ing the lan­guage of Samuel John­son, the man who wrote its first dic­tio­nary. Or we could say we’re speak­ing the lan­guage of Shake­speare, who coined more Eng­lish terms than any oth­er indi­vid­ual in his­to­ry. It would make just as much sense to describe our­selves as speak­ing the lan­guage of the King James Bible, the mass print­ing of which did so much to stan­dard­ize Eng­lish, steam­rolling flat many of the count­less local vari­a­tions that exist­ed in the ear­ly sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry. But as many an Eng­lish­man (and more than a few Amer­i­cans) would be loath to admit, when we speak Eng­lish, we are, much of the time, actu­al­ly speak­ing French.

“In 1066, the Nor­mans turn up and seize the Eng­lish throne from the Anglo-Sax­ons says YouTu­ber Rob­words in the new video above, describ­ing the sin­gle most impor­tant event in the entire his­to­ry of the Eng­lish lan­guage, which he recounts in just 22 min­utes. “William the Con­queror becomes king, and Nor­man French becomes the lan­guage of Eng­land’s élite.”

Under its new ruler, the coun­try’s earls, thanes, and athelings would be called barons, dukes, and princes. “The now-sub­dued Anglo-Sax­ons need­ed to learn French words if they want­ed to get by, so Eng­lish absorbs a whole host of French terms asso­ci­at­ed with pow­er, jus­tice, art, gov­ern­ment, law, and cul­ture — such as pow­er, jus­tice, art, gov­ern­ment, law, and cul­ture,” to name just a few.

This thor­ough­go­ing Frenchi­fi­ca­tion gave rise to what we now call Mid­dle Eng­lish, as dis­tinct from the Old Eng­lish spo­ken before. As not­ed by Rob­Words, about 85 per­cent of Old Eng­lish vocab­u­lary is no longer in use today, yet we’re still “using Old Eng­lish in every sen­tence that we utter,” not least when we break out such irreg­u­lar-seem­ing plu­rals as mice, oxen, and wolves. Tues­day, Wednes­day, Thurs­day, and Fri­day make ref­er­ence to “the Anglo-Sax­ons’ pre-Chris­t­ian gods.” And even in the fast-chang­ing, slang-rid­den, inter­net-influ­enced, and — for bet­ter or for worse — high­ly “glob­al­ized” Eng­lish we speak today, we can still hear dim echoes of the ancient ances­tor lin­guists call Pro­to-Indo-Euro­pean. Per­haps that’s why, despite being so wide­ly spo­ken, Eng­lish is still so tricky to learn: when we speak it, we’re speak­ing not just a lan­guage, but many lan­guages all at once.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The His­to­ry of the Eng­lish Lan­guage in Ten Ani­mat­ed Min­utes

Trac­ing Eng­lish Back to Its Old­est Known Ances­tor: An Intro­duc­tion to Pro­to-Indo-Euro­pean

Where Did the Eng­lish Lan­guage Come From?: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

The Tree of Lan­guages Illus­trat­ed in a Big, Beau­ti­ful Info­graph­ic

The Alpha­bet Explained: The Ori­gin of Every Let­ter

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.

How the Ancient Greeks Built Their Magnificent Temples: The Art of Ancient Engineering

Doric, Ion­ic, Corinthi­an: these, as prac­ti­cal­ly every­one who went through school in the West some­how remem­bers, are the three vari­eties of clas­si­cal col­umn. We may still recall them, more specif­i­cal­ly, as rep­re­sent­ing the three ancient Greek archi­tec­tur­al styles. But as ancient-his­to­ry YouTu­ber Gar­rett Ryan points out in the new Told in Stone video above, only Doric and Ion­ic columns belong ful­ly to ancient Greece; what we think of when we think of Corinthi­an columns were devel­oped more in the civ­i­liza­tion of ancient Rome. The con­text is an expla­na­tion of how the ancient Greeks built their tem­ples, one of the char­ac­ter­is­tics of their design process being the use of columns aplen­ty.

It’s one thing to hear about Greek columns in the class­room, and quite anoth­er to walk amid them in per­son. That, per­haps, is why Ryan deliv­ers the open­ing of his video perched upon the ruins of what’s known as Tem­ple C. Hav­ing once stood proud­ly in Seli­nus, a city belong­ing to Magna Grae­cia (Greek-speak­ing areas of Italy), it now con­sti­tutes one of the prime tourist attrac­tions for antiq­ui­ty-mind­ed vis­i­tors to mod­ern-day Sici­ly.

Though his chan­nel may be called Told in Stone, Ryan begins his brief his­to­ry of the Greek tem­ple before that hardy mate­r­i­al had even come into use for these pur­pos­es. At first, the Greeks fash­ioned the homes of their gods out of mud brick, with thatched roofs and wood­en porch­es; only from the sev­enth cen­tu­ry BC, “prob­a­bly inspired by con­tact with Egypt,” did they start build­ing them to last.

Or they built them to last as long as could be expect­ed, in any case, giv­en the nature of the mate­ri­als avail­able in the ancient world and the mil­len­nia that have passed since then. Take the Tem­ple of Apol­lo at the Sanc­tu­ary of Didy­ma in mod­ern-day Turkey, which his­to­ry-and-archi­tec­ture YouTu­ber Manuel Bra­vo pays a vis­it in the video just above. It may not look as if the near­ly 2400 years since its nev­er-tech­ni­cal­ly-com­plet­ed con­struc­tion began have been kind, but it’s nev­er­the­less one of the bet­ter-pre­served tem­ples from ancient Greek civ­i­liza­tion in exis­tence (not to men­tion the largest). Even in its ruined state, it gives what Bra­vo describes as the impres­sion of — or at least, in its hey­day, hav­ing been — “a for­est of huge columns,” a built ver­sion of “the sacred forests that Greeks used to con­se­crate to the gods.” They’re Ion­ic columns, in case you were won­der­ing, but don’t sweat it; there won’t be a quiz.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The City of Nashville Built a Full-Scale Repli­ca of the Parthenon in 1897, and It’s Still Stand­ing Today

A 3D Mod­el Reveals What the Parthenon and Its Inte­ri­or Looked Like 2,500 Years Ago

How the Parthenon Mar­bles End­ed Up In The British Muse­um

Explore Ancient Athens 3D, a Dig­i­tal Recon­struc­tion of the Greek City-State at the Height of Its Influ­ence

What Ancient Greece Real­ly Looked Like: See Recon­struc­tions of the Tem­ple of Hadri­an, Curetes Street & the Foun­tain of Tra­jan

The His­to­ry of Ancient Greece in 18 Min­utes: A Brisk Primer Nar­rat­ed by Bri­an Cox

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.

The World’s Oldest Cookbook: Discover 4,000-Year-Old Recipes from Ancient Babylon

If asked about your favorite dish, you’d do well to name some­thing exot­ic. Gone are the days when a taste for the likes of Ital­ian, Mex­i­can, or Chi­nese cui­sine could qual­i­fy you as an adven­tur­ous eater. Even expe­di­tions to the very edges of the menus at Peru­vian, Ethiopi­an, or Laot­ian restau­rants, say, would be unlike­ly to draw much respect from seri­ous twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry eaters. One solu­tion is to take your culi­nary voy­ages through not just space but also time, seek­ing out the meals of cen­turies and even mil­len­nia past. This has late­ly become some­what eas­i­er to do, thanks to the work of Har­vard- and Yale-asso­ci­at­ed researchers like Gojko Bar­jamovic, Patri­cia Jura­do Gon­za­lez, Chelsea A. Gra­ham, Agnete W. Lassen, Naw­al Nas­ral­lah, and Pia M. Sörensen.

A few years ago, that inter­dis­ci­pli­nary research team par­tic­i­pat­ed in a Lapham’s Quar­ter­ly round­table on mak­ing and eat­ing the ancient Mesopotami­an recipes con­tained on what are known as the “Yale Culi­nary Tablets.” Dat­ing from between 1730 BC and the sixth or sev­enth cen­tu­ry BC, their Cuneiform inscrip­tions offer only broad and frag­men­tary guid­ance on the prepa­ra­tion of once-com­mon dish­es, none of which, luck­i­ly, are par­tic­u­lar­ly com­plex.

The veg­e­tar­i­an soup pašrū­tum, or “unwind­ing,” involves fla­vors no bold­er than those of cilantro, leek, gar­lic, and dried sour­dough. The stew puhā­di, which uses lamb as well as milk, turns out to be “deli­cious when served with the pep­pery gar­nish of crushed leek and gar­lic.”

The Yale Culi­nary Tablets reveal that the Baby­lo­ni­ans, too, enjoyed tuck­ing into the occa­sion­al for­eign meal — which, four mil­len­nia ago, could have meant a bowl of elamū­tum, or “Elamite broth,” named for its ori­gin in Elam in mod­ern-day Iran. Anoth­er dish made with milk, it also calls for sheep­’s blood (“the mix­ture of sour milk and blood may sound odd,” the round­table arti­cle assures us, “but the com­bi­na­tion pro­duces a rich soup with a slight tart­ness”) and dill, which seems to have been the height of exot­ic ingre­di­ents at the time. Tuh’u, a leg-meat stew, has an iden­ti­fi­able descen­dant still eat­en in Iraq today, but that dish uses white turnip instead of the ancient recipe’s red beet. Giv­en that “Jews of Bagh­dad before their expul­sion used red beet,” it’s “tempt­ing to link the recipe to the con­ti­nen­tal Euro­pean borscht.”

Image via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Recon­struct­ing these recipes, which tend to lack quan­ti­ties or pro­ce­dur­al details, has involved edu­cat­ed guess­work. But no oth­er texts in exis­tence can get you clos­er to recon­struct­ing ancient Mesopotami­an cui­sine in your own kitchen. If you’d like to see how that’s done before giv­ing it a try your­self, watch the videos above and below from Max Miller, whose Youtube chan­nel Tast­ing His­to­ry spe­cial­izes in prepar­ing dish­es from ear­li­er stages of civ­i­liza­tion. Not that depar­ture from the recipes as orig­i­nal­ly dic­tat­ed by tra­di­tion would have any con­se­quences. Most of these recipes may date from an era close to the reign of King Ham­mura­bi, but there’s noth­ing in his famous Code about what hap­pens to cooks who make the occa­sion­al sub­sti­tu­tion.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty Pro­fes­sor Cooks 4000-Year-Old Recipes from Ancient Mesopotamia, and Lets You See How They Turned Out

Watch a 4000-Year Old Baby­lon­ian Recipe for Stew, Found on a Cuneiform Tablet, Get Cooked by Researchers from Yale & Har­vard

How to Make Ancient Mesopotami­an Beer: See the 4,000-Year-Old Brew­ing Method Put to the Test

How to Make the Old­est Recipe in the World: A Recipe for Net­tle Pud­ding Dat­ing Back 6,000 BC

Behold the Old­est Writ­ten Text in the World: The Kish Tablet, Cir­ca 3500 BC

Tast­ing His­to­ry: A Hit YouTube Series Shows How to Cook the Foods of Ancient Greece & Rome, Medieval Europe, and Oth­er Places & Peri­ods

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.

Tomorrow Never Knows: How The Beatles Invented the Future With Studio Magic, Tape Loops & LSD

Tomor­row Nev­er Knows” could­n’t be made today, and not just because the Bea­t­les already made it in 1966. Mark­ing per­haps the sin­gle biggest step in the group’s artis­tic evo­lu­tion, that song is in every sense a prod­uct of its time. The use of psy­che­del­ic drugs like LSD was on the rise in the coun­ter­cul­ture, as was the aware­ness of the reli­gion and music of far­away lands such as India. At the same moment, devel­op­ments in record­ing-stu­dio tech­nol­o­gy were mak­ing new approach­es pos­si­ble, involv­ing sounds that musi­cians nev­er would have imag­ined try­ing before — and, when brought togeth­er, pro­duced a result that many lis­ten­ers of just a few years ear­li­er would hard­ly have rec­og­nized as music at all.

In the new You Can’t Unhear This video above, host Ray­mond Schillinger explains all that went into the record­ing of “Tomor­row Nev­er Knows,” which he calls “arguably the most piv­otal song of the Bea­t­les’ career.” It seems that John had under­gone some con­sid­er­able expe­ri­ences dur­ing the group’s five-month-long break after Rub­ber Soul, giv­en that he turned up to EMI Stu­dios after­ward with a song that “defied pret­ty much every con­ven­tion of pop music at the time: the lyrics did­n’t rhyme, the chord pro­gres­sion did­n’t real­ly progress, and instead of roman­tic love, the sub­ject mat­ter was expand­ing one’s psy­chic con­scious­ness through ego death.” A young Geoff Emer­ick, who’d just been pro­mot­ed to the role of the Bea­t­les’ record­ing engi­neer, rose to the chal­lenge of facil­i­tat­ing an equal­ly non-stan­dard stu­dio process.

The whol­ly new son­ic tex­ture that result­ed owes in large part to the use of mul­ti­ple tape loops, lit­er­al sec­tions of audio tape con­nect­ed at the begin­ning and end to allow the­o­ret­i­cal­ly infi­nite rep­e­ti­tion of their con­tent. This was a fair­ly new musi­cal tech­nol­o­gy at the time, and the Bea­t­les made use of it with gus­to, cre­at­ing loops of all man­ner of sped-up sounds — an orches­tra play­ing, a Mel­lotron, a reversed Indi­an sitar, Paul sound­ing like a seag­ull — and orches­trat­ing them “live” dur­ing record­ing. (Ringo’s drum track, despite what sounds like a super­hu­man reg­u­lar­i­ty in this con­text, was not, in fact a loop.) Oth­er tech­no­log­i­cal­ly nov­el ele­ments includ­ed John’s dou­ble-tracked vocals run through a revolv­ing Leslie speak­er and a back­wards gui­tar solo about whose author­ship Bea­t­les enthu­si­asts still argue.

What John had called “The Void,” was reti­tled after one of Ringo’s sig­na­ture askew expres­sions (“a hard day’s night” being anoth­er) in order to avoid draw­ing too much atten­tion as a “drug song.” But lis­ten­ers tapped into the LSD scene would have rec­og­nized lyri­cal inspi­ra­tion drawn from The Tibetan Book of the Dead, the ancient work that also informed The Psy­che­del­ic Expe­ri­ence, the guide­book by Tim­o­thy Leary and Richard Alpert (lat­er Baba Ram Dass) with which John direct­ed his own first trip. But even for the least turned-on Bea­t­le fan, “Tomor­row Nev­er Knows” was “like step­ping from a black-and-white world into full col­or,” as Schillinger puts it. The Bea­t­les might have gone the way of the Rolling Stones and cho­sen to record in an Amer­i­can stu­dio rather than their home-away-from-home on Abbey Road, the uncon­ven­tion­al use of its less-than-cut­ting-edge gear result­ed in what remains a vivid­ly pow­er­ful dis­patch from the ana­log era — even here in the twen­ty-twen­ties, when con­scious­ness expan­sion itself has gone dig­i­tal.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How John Lennon Wrote the Bea­t­les’ Best Song, “A Day in the Life”

The Amaz­ing Record­ing His­to­ry of The Bea­t­les’ “Here Comes the Sun”

The Exper­i­men­tal Move­ment That Cre­at­ed The Bea­t­les’ Weird­est Song, “Rev­o­lu­tion 9”

How “Straw­ber­ry Fields For­ev­er” Con­tains “the Cra­zi­est Edit” in Bea­t­les His­to­ry

Hear Bri­an Eno Sing The Bea­t­les’ “Tomor­row Nev­er Knows” as Part of The Best Live Album of the Glam/Prog Era (1976)

The Bea­t­les’ 8 Pio­neer­ing Inno­va­tions: A Video Essay Explor­ing How the Fab Four Changed Pop Music

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 Rabbit Rides a Chariot Pulled by Geese in an Ancient Roman Mosaic (2nd century AD)

If you head to the Lou­vre, make sure you vis­it the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and Lib­er­ty Lead­ing the Peo­ple. But then swing by the Depart­ment of Greek, Etr­uscan, and Roman Antiq­ui­ties. There you might find (no guar­an­tee!) a Roman mosa­ic fea­tur­ing a rab­bit rid­ing a char­i­ot pulled by geese. Dis­cov­ered at Hadri­an’s vil­la in Tivoli, Italy, the mosa­ic dates back to the 2nd cen­tu­ry. About the mosa­ic, the His­to­ry Cool Kids writes:

This kind of humor­ous scene is an exam­ple of asária, a type of ancient visu­al joke where ani­mals behave like humans (anthro­po­mor­phism). Such mosaics were pop­u­lar in Roman domes­tic dec­o­ra­tion, often as floor or wall pan­els in vil­las and bath­hous­es.

This par­tic­u­lar mosa­ic is part of the Louvre’s exten­sive col­lec­tion of Greek, Etr­uscan, and Roman Antiq­ui­ties. It illus­trates how Roman artists loved play­ful or satir­i­cal imagery along­side more seri­ous mytho­log­i­cal and real­is­tic scenes. The rab­bit, a sym­bol often asso­ci­at­ed with fer­til­i­ty and speed, paired with the absur­di­ty of it dri­ving a char­i­ot of geese, reflects both Roman wit and their fond­ness for dec­o­ra­tive exu­ber­ance.

Some schol­ars believe the mosa­ic plays on a line in Ovid’s Meta­mor­phoses: “Cytherea [Aphrodite] was rid­ing in her dain­ty char­i­ot, winged by her swans, across the mid­dle air mak­ing for Cyprus, when she heard afar Ado­nis’ dying groans, and thith­er turned her snowy birds.” But it’s hard to know for sure.

via Messy Nessy

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Killer Rab­bits in Medieval Man­u­scripts: Why So Many Draw­ings in the Mar­gins Depict Bun­nies Going Bad

The Medieval Man­u­script That Fea­tures “Yoda”, Killer Snails, Sav­age Rab­bits & More: Dis­cov­er The Smith­field Dec­re­tals

How a Mosa­ic from Caligula’s Par­ty Boat Became a Cof­fee Table in a New York City Apart­ment 50 Years Ago

Archae­ol­o­gists Dis­cov­er a 2,000-Year-Old Roman Glass Bowl in Per­fect Con­di­tion

 

The Genius Urban Design of Amsterdam: Canals, Dams & Leaning Houses

It’s com­mon to hear it said that some par­tic­u­lar city — usu­al­ly one of the Amer­i­can metrop­o­lis­es that sprang into exis­tence over the past cou­ple of cen­turies — “should­n’t exist.” And indeed, as urban plan­ner M. Nolan Gray writes in a recent blog post, “no city should exist.” On the scale of human his­to­ry, we’ve only just start­ed build­ing the things, and we don’t do so on pure instinct. “There isn’t sup­posed to be a city any­where. They exist because we will them into exis­tence.” And we often do so in unlike­ly con­texts: “Half of Boston was dredged up from the ocean. St. Louis only exists because we tamed the great­est riv­er on our con­ti­nent. Sup­ply­ing Philadel­phia with drink­ing water is an engi­neer­ing feat on the scale of the Los Ange­les Aque­duct.”

Out­side the Unit­ed States, we see the same con­di­tions sur­round­ing “the great­est cities ever built: Tokyo and St. Peters­burg required engi­neer­ing feats on the scale of any­thing seen in the US. Ams­ter­dam and Mex­i­co City were lit­er­al­ly built on top of water.” How that was man­aged in the par­tic­u­lar case of the Dutch cap­i­tal is explained in the new video from The Present Past at the top of the post, as well as in the OBF video below.

Ams­ter­dam’s most strik­ing fea­ture, its canals, were cre­at­ed not to look pic­turesque; in fact, as The Present Past host Jochem Boodt puts it, their con­struc­tion was “a mat­ter of life and death.” Too soft for farm­ing or home-build­ing, the swampy ground beneath the city on the riv­er Ams­tel had to be drained; when drained, it became sub­ject to floods, which neces­si­tat­ed build­ing dikes and a dam.

httv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mo3llzKdAD0

That thir­teenth-cen­tu­ry engi­neer­ing project of damming the Ams­tel pro­tect­ed the city, and also gave it its name. The Ams­tel itself is, in fact, a huge canal, and the rapid expan­sion of the set­tle­ment around it neces­si­tat­ed dig­ging more and more aux­il­iary canals to assist with drainage, which defined the space for islands on which to build new dis­tricts (Venice-style, atop hun­dreds of thou­sands of poles dri­ven into the sea floor). As shown in the OBF video, this dis­tinc­tive urban struc­ture dic­tat­ed the shapes of the city’s hous­es, with their uni­ver­sal­ly nar­row façades and their depths reflect­ing the wealth of the fam­i­lies with­in. Now, four cen­turies after it took its cur­rent shape — and hav­ing sur­vived numer­ous crises inher­ent to its unusu­al sit­u­a­tion and form — the cen­ter of Ams­ter­dam is looked to as a paragon of urban plan­ning, some­times imi­tat­ed, but with­out sim­i­lar­ly “impos­si­ble” orig­i­nal con­di­tions, nev­er repli­cat­ed.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Why Dutch & Japan­ese Cities Are Insane­ly Well Designed (and Amer­i­can Cities Are Ter­ri­bly Designed)

The Bril­liant Engi­neer­ing That Made Venice: How a City Was Built on Water

New Web Site Show­cas­es 700,000 Arti­facts Dug Up from the Canals of Ams­ter­dam, Some Dat­ing Back to 4300 BC

Trav­el from Rot­ter­dam to Ams­ter­dam in 10 Min­utes by Boat: A 4K Time­lapse

Why Europe Has So Few Sky­scrap­ers

When the Dutch Tried to Live in Con­crete Spheres: An Intro­duc­tion to the Bol­wonin­gen in the Nether­lands

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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