JF Ptak Science Books – A Daily History of Holes, Dots, Lines, Science, History, Math, Physics, Art, the Unintentional Absurd, Architecture, Maps, Data Visualization, Blank and Missing Things, and so on. |1.6 million words, 7500 images, 4.9 million hits| Press & appearances in The Times, Le Figaro, Mensa, The Economist, The Guardian, Discovery News, Slate, Le Monde, Sci American Blogs, Le Pont, and many other places… 5000+ total posts since 2008.

Robert Burton, “The Anatomy of Meloncholy”, and the Height of Heaven

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The Elizabethan Robert Burton (1577-1640), in his supreme 1621 effort The Anatomy of Melancholy¹ (“The best
book ever written. Period”)—ostensibly a quasi-medical book on depression/melancholy² but
really about everything, not to mention the entirety of the sciences—called on
Galileo and Kepler in supporting his view that the “eighth sphere” (of Dante, containing
the starry realm and the abode of the Heavenly Father) was 170 million 800
miles away³ from the earth.

Burton
thought that if you were to drop a stone from that distance and have it travel
100 mph it would take “65 years or more”, [page 152 or so]) to reach the ground
here on earth. Heaven aside, something going
100mph for 65 years wouldn’t get but a third of the way to 170mil., though it
was interesting for

Burton to be thinking in terms of big distance like this at this time. There are by
the way other “eighth spheres” around in the history of science and literature,
from Sacrobosco to Copernicus, but Burton must absolutely be referring to Dante for this reference.

Well. There is of
course much of great interest in this book that wound up being correct, and
then there was the other stuff, like this, that just didn’t work. Overall
though it may be a book to be buried with; it is beautiful, complex,
deliberate, fantastic, horribly erudite, compelling, and sometimes unreadable.

Notes:

1.The full title of
the book, by the way, is: The Anatomy of Melancholy, What it is: With all
the Kinds, Causes, Symptomes, Prognostickes, and Several Cures of it. In Three Partitions with
their several Sections, Members, and Subsections. Philosophically,
Historically, Opened and Cut up. The book again was first published in 1621, and followed by revisions in 1624, 1628, 1632, 1638, and 1651; the 1651 edition was reprinted in 1660 and 1676, and then all was quiet until it was picked up again in 1800.

2. Burton identifies
Melancholia as follows: “Melancholy, the subject of our present
discourse, is either in disposition or in habit. In disposition, is that transitory Melancholy
which goes and comes upon every small occasion of sorrow, need, sickness,
trouble, fear, grief, passion, or perturbation of the mind, any manner of care,
discontent, or thought, which causes anguish, dulness, heaviness and vexation
of spirit, any ways opposite to pleasure, mirth, joy, delight, causing
frowardness in us, or a dislike. In which equivocal and improper sense, we call
him melancholy, that is dull, sad, sour, lumpish, ill-disposed, solitary, any
way moved, or displeased. And from these melancholy dispositions no man living
is free, no Stoick, none so wise, none so happy, none so patient, so generous,
so godly, so divine, that can vindicate himself; so well-composed, but more or
less, some time or other, he feels the smart of it. Melancholy in this sense is
the character of Mortality. . . . This Melancholy of which we are to
treat, is a habit, a serious ailment, a settled humour,
as Aurelianus and others call it, not errant, but fixed: and as it was long
increasing, so, now being (pleasant or painful) grown to a habit, it will
hardly be removed.”

3. The quote for the 170 million mile high Heaven bit: “So that according to these men the number of ethereal spirits must needs be infinite: for if that be true that some of our mathematicians say: if a stone could fall from the starry heaven, or eighth sphere, and should pass every hour an hundred miles, it would be 65 years, or more, before it would come to ground, by reason of the great
distance of heaven from earth, which contains as some say 170 millions
800 miles, besides those other heavens, whether they be crystalline or
watery which Maginus adds,
which peradventure holds as much more, how many such spirits may it
contain? And yet for all this Thomas Albertus, and most hold that there
be far more angels than devils.”

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The Indredible and Useless Dog Engines of 1895 and 1939

JF Ptak Science Books Post 797 (Sept 2009) Extended.

In 1702, at the beginnings of the Industrial Revolution, Thomas Savery (c.1650 – 1715) began the idea of calculating the work done by steam engines over that done by horses, writing in his book, The Miner’s Friend:

“So that an engine which will raise as much water as two horses, working together at one time in such a work, can do, and for which there must be constantly kept ten or twelve horses for doing the same. Then I say, such an engine may be made large enough to do the work required in employing eight, ten, fifteen, or twenty horses to be constantly maintained and kept for doing such a work…” But it was James Watt who first introduced the term ”horsepower” while trying to advertise and place forever the idea of his steam engine over than of the earlier Newcombe engine and, of course, horses.”

James Watt (1736-1819), Scottish inventor and “re-inventor” of the steam engine, the man who put the ‘power” into “horsepower”, determined that a horse could turn a mill wheel (of a 12-foot radius) about 144 times in an hour (about 2 ½ times a minute), traveling 2.5x2pix12 per minute. It has been shown though that on average a horse will work at about 1.5 horsepower like this for an hour on and off; and less than 1 horse in other times; a man could work at 1.5-2.5 horsepower for a short time, but generally would pull about a tenth of that for an extended time.

And so we come to the crux of the biscuit of this post: a dog motor. This entirely, utterly, unconvincing and thoroughly bad idea was fully fleshed out by a M. Richard (naturally of Paris) for the Agricultural Exhibition and re-published from La Nature in the Scientific American Supplement on 10 August 1895. It is slightly lovely in its high Victorian way, or at least so until you consider that an animal goes in side the thing, working its way along an infinite belt, a cup of water just within reach. The dog would power the large wheel, which would turn a smaller wheel and belt, which in turn would be connected to smaller, and so on, until it reached whatever it was it was powering, which is left entirely to our imagination. Even when I squeeze my eyes in a telescoping effort, I cannot see what it is that this poor doggie might power. Given the descending orders of radii of the wheelworks, perhaps the tenth-horsepower dog engine ran a fan, or something, something remarkably insignificant. It does tell us something about over-design, like buying a ten dollar bill with a twenty.

Another, more recent but less serious attempt at utilizing canine power was found in Popular Science for 1939:

The thing that really bothers me is that both of these really bad ideas occurred in years where there were fantastic ideas in the history of physics–1895 being the home to the discovery of the atomic world in the work of Wilhelm Roentgen, and 1939, well, more of the same plus making the atomic world go “boom”.

In this same vein, and keeping with the highlight-year-for-physics theme, is this thing, created in the 1880’s but published in Popular Science in 1933:

With the help of Laura Massey (Bookn3rd !), from the wonderful bookseller blog, The Cataloguer’s Desk at the great Peter Harrington Rare Book Shop (London), I’m including an 18th century version of sweating dogpower called the Turnspit:

I’m not sure what it is that would keep the dog running after it realized in the first half-minute that it will never be able to retrieve that hanging thing set out in front of him/her–maybe things got poke-y.

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Fantastic African Found Architecture vs. a Color Catastrophe in Fort Wayne
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A great job done with access to nothing, and a bad/period job done with access to everything.

Part I:

The town of Windhoek (at least so-named by Imperial Germany, which moved in in 1884, claiming this part of Africa for themselves against British desires) was growing at the edge of the Namib desert–a mile high, 14 inches of rain a year, an situated between two rival tribes, and for 35 years under the control of Germany. Barren, dry, and far from anywhere. This report appears in the Illustrated London News for 10 December 1932, a story from a German traveler at Windhoeck 13 years after Germany was forced to give everything up after the terrible Great War.

And what this traveler sees is quite shocking, spectacular: Windhoeck had become a town made of discarded tin petrol cans. Thousands of cans flattened and battered and fashioned and fabricated to fit over wooden skeletons–and then whitewashed–all arranged around a city plan of roundabouts and looking vaguely like Washington DC in plan.

In a place with little resource the people living there were applying whatever they could that made sense to its fullest use–the found, discarded petrol tins were of exceptional utility, rewriting a certain amount of economic theory of value. The vernacular landscape for this community was intelligent and lovely, making artful use of scarce commodities.

Part II:

The National Mills Company catalog—purveyor of bathroom and plumbing supplies to the trade of Fort Wayne, Indiana—of 1939 is like a trip back in time to grandma’s Great Barrington bathroom, comforting and sort of pleasing, until you get to the color illustrations. It is there that the Turner colorized classic movies seem to have gone and speewingly bled their incredible neo-technicolor blood—colors not found in nature do battle amongst themselves in brilliantly chromo-deranged bathrooms and kitchens.

These things certainly seem benign enough in black and white (and gray tones), but in color we are left with “oh, wow!” reactions as the cones in our eyes plead for mercy, and anyone who ever lived with any ability of color sense goes a-spinning in the ethereal night, corkscrewing themselves into a-chromatic corners of the beyond.

Seeing these right on the heels of my post on beautiful, simple vernacular architecture of found objects makes these samples of bourgeoisie pre-war post-depression excess all the more awful, like that knowing lump in your throat when you know something is going to go badly. The experimentation with extreme color for the middle class in the National Mills catalog seems to have survived itself, many of these colors were evidently sold In big enough numbers to warrant reappearances in the next few catalogs. Go figure.
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The Story Behind the Iconic Image: Robert Hooke’s Flea, 1665

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…”it is my hope, as well as belief, that
these my Labours will be no more comparable to the Productions of
many other Natural Philosophers, who are now every where busie about greater
things; then my little Objects are to be compar’d to the greater and
more beautiful Works of Nature, A Flea, a Mite, a Gnat, to an Horse, an
Elephant, or a Lyon.”—Robert Hooke
at the end of his 28-page preface to Micrographia¹ (1665)

I’ve written elsewhere in this blog about Robert Hooke, and
how, if there had somehow and impossibly been no Newton, he might’ve taken Sir Isaac’s place
in the popular mind. He was a tireless,
relentless observer and experimenter, who lost little effort in a stranded idea
and pursued interesting and problematic questions relentlessly. More than others too he chased his won glory—minor
but long and insistent—the years of which wore thin on many people in the
scientific community. But there were
many characteristics of the man that made him not quite so lovable and
endearing—not that Newton was any of those things, as he was not, but if you
are going to be a secondary luminary to a super nova you’ve got to have
something else going for you that the other man doesn’t have—sharing, helpful,
greatly generous—to get you into the long pre-dusty pages of history. Also it would’ve
helped if Hooke chose his battles with a little more aplomb and ingenuity—the
war which began in 1672 with Newton went very badly for Hooke and followed him
to the grave (and far beyond).

What I’d like to talk about right now, though, of the many
things to talk about concerning Robert Hooke, is the most iconographic image he
ever produced, and perhaps one of the most famous scientific images of the 17^th
century—the flea.

The 28-year old Hooke published the results in a gorgeous
and revolutionary book, Micrographia (a lovely e-text edition appears at Gutenberg, here) in 1665, which became an instant
best seller and highly praised and valued. (Samuel Pepys, perhaps among the
shiniest stars whose imprimatur was like a royal blessing, said the book (was)
“the most ingenious book that I ever read in my life.”) There is no
telling what the people of the mid-17^th century thought of seeing
such incredible discoveries in the little semi-invisible stuff that made up
their normal, daily lives. The only thing that somewhat equates to this
would be if the first images of the Hubble were those of Earth-bound objects
whose detail had previously been unknown. Hooke’s observations and
drawings of things like the common flea were just an astonishment—that such a
creature of “low order” could have such intricate detail and design was a
complete revelation. The drawings of the fly’s eye, too, was an
inescapable wonder, an incredible object to consider as having any
detail pre-microscope, and then revealed to have unimaginable design and elegance.

It turns out that the flea was not the most important object
that Hooke had in mind with the Micrographic—it
was part of an overall attempt at making sense of all creation, the bug part of
the book occupying only a part of the (only) one-fifth of the book’s 246 pages
devoted to living creatures. The book
actually starts with inanimate objects (the needle, followed by a razor, linen, silk, glass canes, flint, and so on), and then works it way through living
stuff, ending up talking about light and the Moon and the cosmos.

The opening images of the book are actually
of the edge of a razor and the head of a needle—under magnification they showed
a bitter, ragged edge and a nubby, pitted point (respectively)—which would have
been almost as unimaginable and shocking as the flea….except that the flea of
course opened possibilities of entire worlds of things alive in our
semi-invisible environment. Things
really weren’t as they seemed to be.

Hooke’s flea, as spectacular and revolutionary as it was,
was only a part of the story—the rest of the behind-the-picture narrative lies
in a much wider and more complex view of all things, living and not,

in which Hooke tells us we should employ the
microscope/macroscope to solve disputes in our “wandring senses”. Not bad
advice at all.

In the preface to the
Micrographia Hooke states:

Thus all the uncertainty, and mistakes of humane actions, proceed either
from the narrowness and wandring of our Senses, from the slipperiness or
delusion of our Memory, from the confinement or rashness of our Understanding,
so that ’tis no wonder, that our power over natural causes and effects is so
slowly improv’d, seeing we are not only to contend with the obscurity and difficulty
of the things whereon we work and think, but even the forces of our own
minds conspire to betray us.

These being the dangers in the process of humane Reason, the remedies of
them all can only proceed from the real, the mechanical, the experimental
Philosophy, which has this advantage over the Philosophy of discourse
and disputation, that whereas that chiefly aims at the subtilty of its
Deductions and Conclusions, without much regard to the first ground-work, which
ought to be well laid on the Sense and Memory; so this intends the right
ordering of them all, and the making them serviceable to each other…

He continues with a short outline of how to accomplish this:

The first thing to be undertaken in this weighty work, is a watchfulness
over the failings and an inlargement of the dominion, of the Senses.

To which end it is requisite, first, That there should be a scrupulous
choice, and a strict examination, of the reality, constancy, and
certainty of the Particulars that we admit: This is the first rise whereon
truth is to begin, and here the most severe, and most impartial diligence, must
be imployed; the storing up of all, without any regard to evidence or use, will
only tend to darkness and confusion. We must not therefore esteem the riches of
our Philosophical treasure by the number only, but chiefly by the weight;
the most vulgar Instances are not to be neglected, but above all, the
most instructive are to be entertain’d; the footsteps of Nature are to
be trac’d, not only in her ordinary course, but when she seems to be put
to her shifts, to make many doublings and turnings, and to use
some kind of art in indeavouring to avoid our discovery.

The next care to be taken, in respect of the Senses, is a supplying of
their infirmities with Instruments, and, as it were, the adding of artificial
Organs to the natural; this in one of them has been of late years
accomplisht with prodigious benefit to all sorts of useful knowledge, by the
invention of Optical Glasses. By the means of Telescopes, there is
nothing so far distant but may be represented to our view; and by the
help of Microscopes, there is nothing so small, as to escape our
inquiry; hence there is a new visible World discovered to the understanding. By
this means the Heavens are open’d, and a vast number of new Stars, and new
Motions, and new Productions appear in them, to which all the ancient
Astronomers were utterly Strangers. By this the Earth it self, which lyes so
neer us, under our feet, shews quite a new thing to us, and in every little
particle of its matter; we now behold almost as great a variety of
Creatures, as we were able before to reckon up in the whole Universe it
self.

1. The
full title of the book: MICROGRAPHIA, OR, SOME Physiological Descriptions OF MINUTE BODIES, MADE BY MAGNIFYING.

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Things Not Meant to Fly: Big, Heavy, Underpowered Planes

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“The tallest airplane ever built” is the title to this picture which appeared in the “Chronicle of the Car” section of the Illustrated London News for 22 February 1908. The plane is the work and vision of J.W. Roshon, a photographer from Harrisburg Pa. Somehow, Mr. Roshon designed this thing to fly–that it could roll, and perhaps even taxi, is one thing, but flying really doesn’t seem to be part of its performable agenda. The plane was made of “aluminum and steel tubing, bamboo, and steel wire… and measured 24 feet wide, 8 feet deep, and 17 feet high”, and held 900 square feet of canvas. This all sounds very heavy to me, especially when you consider that the engine weighed 50 pounds and generated seven horsepower. By contrast, the Wright I Flyer (the famous first-flight airplane of 1903) had a wingspan of 40 feet, weighed 625 pounds and sported a 12 horsepower, 170 pound engine (and which by the way was all produced for about a thousand dollars).

Its hard to see, but the pilot is prone, and laying left-to-right, and the plane really does seem to be 8 feet long, stem to stern. I cannot find out what happened to the canvas and tubing and pilot after the test flight (where “flight” means “roll”).

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Racing Houses and Lost Cemeteries: Ochiltree, Texas, 1920

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Dateline: Ochiltree, Texas, 20 October 1920. Mr. Ralphsted Winston has been racing houses for the 30 years. “Yep. House racing is older’n auTOWmobiles by a large space; we’ve had tractors for a good time longer than cars, and more powerful, too. It was just natural to do something with them more than find black soil”. And so evidently came house racing. A reporter wondered if there was one particular house that was best to race with. “Sure” replied Mr. Winston, “houses with porches. Let’s the breeze to let the breeze come out to show them” he explained, somewhat.

For the last ten years Mr. Winston has been racing a different sort of house. “God’s house” he said firmly. “Churches. Round here, in North Texas, they’re small-built with wood and such, and aren’t too heavy, makes for nice tight turns and a solid straightaway”.

“And chapels?” came a question.

“Not allowed. Got to be a church” came Mr. Winston’s reply, his jawline cracking.

“The only problem with churches”, he continued, “is that not one of them has ever won a race. Ever. Even in the best conditions, we get bested by porches, schoolhouses, even soddies”. “Yup”, and then came a long, ponderous spit, “not a one, won”, extended a chuckling Mr. Winston.

A reporter asked, “Why don’t you have a race with nothing but churches. Then at least you’ll have a winner.”

“There will be a whole LOT of losers. Maybe ever one” replied an eyebrow-raised Winston. “I do guess that someone would have to win, even if they were from Oklahoma, they’d be a winner too. Not everybody has to wind up in a drown ditch. But in the land of the blind , you don’t have to be a happy one-eyed king.”

Well, this really isn’t a race of houses, though I’d much rather think of this picture in these terms. (The church is passed on the left, on the right! There’ll be hell to pay for those maneuvers!”) What is happening here is that the town of Ochiltree is being moved closer to the railroad that passed the town by, by 15 miles or so. It was the North Texas and Santa Fe RR (Shattuck, Oklahoma to Spearman, Texas) that left Ochiltree behind; and just after that, a new town called Perryton appeared, established there on the railway line, taking all of the interest (and the county seat) away from Ochiltree. So what happened was that Ochiltree decided to move to Perryton, to become part of that town, evidently leaving nothing but space wherer the town used to be. (The Handbook of Texas said that the town “disappered completely”.) I wonder though if there weren’t a few people who decided to stay, who just wouldn’t move; who in 1921 found vast new distances between them and whoever else was left, all of the other buildings gone, pulled up out of the ground, lock, stock and barrel. And what about the cemeteries for the two churches that were moved? According to the good folks at the Perryton Memorial Library, the cemeteries were left, and still there, in a town that isn’t. (On the other hand I can’t imagine how a small town would’ve moved a cemetery–there may have been 500 people in Ochiltree at the point of departure, and perhaps another250 or so who were over the years already departed…that means that every able-bodied person would have had to dis-and-re-inter one fallen town member, which may have been way to much to ask of anybody given that they were already moving the entire town.)

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Blank and Empty Things Post 54: The Cowboy Race of 1893

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Some other posts on the Cowboy and the West: The
Advancing Frontier and the Increase in Bloody Names of Literary Heroes; Where is the West?
How to Find Nowhere; Lines that Closed the West:
Wires, Rails and Words

I’ve not seen this picture of the nine cowboys who starred
and started the Great Cowboy Race of 1893¹.
They gathered with a frenzy on the little town of Chadron, Nebraska
(population 2,000, which doubled in size as the event’s opening grew near)
determined to announce the “best “ cowboy, the first to cross the finish line
near the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893 and shake the hand of Buffalo Bill
Cody (well on his way to becoming a shell of what used-to-be). The contest was supposed to take
two weeks and average 50-75 miles a day, which is a lot to ask of a team of
horses (and the riders). So there was
the expected shenanigans, and the man who “won” evidently helped plan the secret
route, and someone else rode a trains with his horses for a bit, and so
on.

The result doesn’t matter–it seems an overall sad story, these guys winging their way to the windy City, a race to oblivion. (Some of the cowboy contestants were already about half-faded away into Limbo judging from the photo touch up that had to be done of their faces.)

Ironically these cowboys were racing to the cosmopolitan
host of the World’s Fair in which the historian Frederick Jackson Turner read
his paper “The Significance
of the Frontier in American History,” —a
significant theoretical piece announcing why Americans are so different from Europeans, and
also that the American frontier had clearly, absolutely, been broken and installed in the gauzy national psyche. The fate of the Cowboy had already been determined 20 years before with the introduction of refrigerator cars, railroad expansion and barbed wire–all of which cut the West into smaller and smaller parcels, until they restricted the Cowboy to its own Reservation. A crooked race to Chicago seemed to crystalize the Cowboy’s tenuous grasp on existence, depicted finally by the new(ish) half-tone photo process of Stephen Henry Horgan, making a half-portrait of empty circles, the image disappearing more and more the closer we look at it..

It was just a sorry show for the cowboy all
the way around, and a story that doesn’t need to be told here. I did just want to publish this picture. There’s a long and good story here http://www.thelongridersguild.com/chadron2.htm
about the entire affair.

I include the list of the riders, mainly for the names of
their horses:

Emmett
Abbott riding Outlaw and Joe Bush.

Joe
Campbell riding his one horse, Boom-de-aye.

Davy
Douglas riding Wide Awake and Monte Cristo.

Old Joe
Gillespie riding Billy Mack and Billy Schafer.

George
Jones riding Romeo and George.

Charlie Smith
riding Dynamite and Red Wing.

Rattlesnake
Pete Stephens riding General Grant and Nick.

Doc
Middleton riding Geronimo and Bay Jimmie.

John Berry
riding Poison and Sandy

.

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The Stillness of High-Victorian Action (Blank & Empty Things Series #55)

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It seems to me that even when the Victorians¹ were busy doing
something, nothing seemed to be happening–true too for me with this later period in Germany, under the command and control, for good and for ill, of Kaiser Wilhelm, German Emperor and King of Prussia from 1888 to the end of the Great War. There’s a certain something
to illustration at this time, creating wooden
humans manikins, watching other wooden figures doing something at elevated speeds that
made them seem motionless. I’m not sure what it is–perhaps propriety,
perhaps the need to be visibly invisible, the sine qua non of behaving
correctly.

I’m not sure what sort of special, invisible addition needs to be
applied to Victorian/Wilhelmian Nothingness to add up to Something. There’s a
certain unexplained emptiness, motionlessness, nothingness to illustration in this period, and I’m always at a loss to save good examples of it–though today I have two good examples, found in the 7 April and 28 January 1904 issues of the Illustrirte Zeitung (Leipzig). For all of the excitement and action and crowds given in these daredevil bicycle demonstrations there seems to be not a breathe being breathed, or perhaps it was breathe breathed slowly. In any event, the situations seemed suspended in action and belief. Ironically this was also the age when the concept of “speed” was at the beginning of being completely re-written with the introduction of the car, airplane, internal combustion engine, widespread electrical networks, motion pictures, and so on–but none of this mattered in images like these, outstanding as they are for being scenes of action presented in a mosaic of stillness and quiet.

1. Yes, the Queen expired in January 1901, but the influence didn’t necessarily die with her.

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The Kennedy-Nixon Debate that Wasn’t: Mrs. vs. Mrs.

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Television made a grand, sweeping entrance into the presidential political arena, becoming a tertiary, occasionally biased and highly visible invisible determinant in the contest, 49 years ago yesterday. Nearly half of the country tuned in to watch the first debate on 26 September 1960–which would actually be considerably more than half of the voting population—for a first-ever nationally visual spectacular of seeing two presidential aspirants face each other. Nixon turned from being an aspirant into a perspirent: deciding not to use makeup and sweating badly under the heat of the studio lighting, Nixon looked dark and foreboding compared to the just-returned–from-California Kennedy, tanned and nicely tailored Also of course Kennedy had that charisma bit going on, and spoke very well, was charming, and funny—most of which Nixon was not, though he did have his (version of the) facts under command, had a certain presence because of being Vice President for eight years, and was a formidable debater.

But things did not go well for Nixon in the debates, and probably cost him the election which was determined by a squeaky-small margin of 49.7% to 49.6% (34,220,984 to 34,108,157) of the popular vote. But as we have seen recently the popular vote doesn’t mean anything if you have the electoral college, which Kennedy had reasonably wrapped up 303 to 226. Too bad the Kleig lamps didn’t do their magic in 1968.

What I’d like to address here was the (very little known?) second-tier, non-existent but evidently proposed debates between the candidate’s wives.

I own a small archive of Jacqueline Kennedy-iana that came to me via her first, pre-White House press secretary, Gladys Uhl. Among these 50-odd pieces is this fantastic response from Mrs. Kennedy’s office regarding the proposed wives’ debate.

The edited typed-carbon response reads: “I agree with Mrs. Nixon that a debate between the candidates’ wives would serve no purpose and I also agree that clothes should not be an issue in this campaign.”

The penciled note at top reads: “Clear with Mrs. Kennedy and I will phone to AP – G” (The “G” being Gladys Uhl, the press secretary.) The note at bottom, from Mrs. Kennedy, reads: “In answer to your request for comment.”

And so ended a truly bad idea, cut to the quick by Mrs. Kennedy and Mrs. Nixon, thankfully sharing the belief that the wives of candidates needn’t get officially involved in the presidential contest.

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What Things are and what things Aren’t Department, #3: Things that Aren’t ‘Bridges” or “Floating Land”.

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My friend Jeff Donlan sent me a link to a site in which librarians-on-coffee-breaks
were busily renaming classic book titles as they might be re-titled today. For
example, we have:

Old: Richard III ;
New: R3: Judgment Day

Old: Frankenstein, or
The Modern Prometheus; New: Frankenstein:
Wrath of the Supercorpse

Old: Das Kapital;
New: Labor Value: How Today’s Companies
Get the Most out of Their Workforce.

You get the picture. And so it was with this in mind that I
came across this unusual woodcut in the delightful publication called The Mirrour of Literature, Amusement and
Instruction, published in London on 25 January, 1840. There are all
manner of fringe-interesting and ephemeral materials here—necessarily
unexpected, as in this short article about “The Steam Floating Bridge”
(of Torpoint, Cornwall to Devonport, Devonshire crossing the Hamoaze).

At first glance
this looked like a remarkable modernized way of reformulating the word and concept
for “boat” or “ferry”. (What audacity!—though perhaps it was someone trying to
evade patent protection by calling a boat “a bridge”, leading an entirely new
wave of renamed inventions into a shadow industrial revolution…) But luck on this was only half-full—on closer
inspection (and of course before actually reading the article, set aside like
so many instructional manuals) you can see the “bridge” part of the
steam-driven barge: two chains leading
from the land, then under water, then up again on the bow/stern of the business
end of the barge, then down again, and then on to the other shore. This all does sound quite like an old common
ferry to me, but if the good Cornish people felt it to be a bridge, then a
bridge it is.

Loosely connected to this floating “bridge” is the so-called
floating “land” used by associates of the mystical Noah to help in the
last-moment construction of the great ark.
The activity on board is a little confusing to me, as is the
room-enough-for-three bit of floating “land”, which I would hazard to call a “raft”.

I
should point out that the guy with the hammer-like tool is working on the roof
and not the head of the person in the flattened foreground, though this would
make for a better story, taking a step towards an ancient Murder on the Orient Express.

I wonder also about the guy collecting water with the jar, as it seems
that if he waited for just a little bit longer the water would be coming to
him. (This image is a 19th-century republication of the scene from the 1493 Nuremberg Chronicle.)

**A longer and fuller description of the “bridge” is found in
the Saturday Magazine for 1842, here.

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JF Ptak

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Bad Ideas — Prints–looking HARD/deeply at
A Stone-Cold Masterpiece of Naive Art: Teresa Ottalo, ca. 1860

JF Ptak Science Books LLC Post 773 Blog Bookstore

As a collector of naive art–particularly produced with letters or numbers–and as a person generally interested in naive and outsider (and art brut and letterist and found )art, I was astonished to find this spectacular work by Terea Ottalo (ca. 1800-1870). First of all, I make this to be about 200 lines long, and about 50 inches tall. The words are, well, minute.

Secondly: this magnificnet thing was EMBROIDERED. Breathtaking, really.

I haven’t yet found out anything about Ms. Ottalo, except some basic references of her affiliated “school” of art.

I do know that this, whatever it is, is a masterpiece.

And an unfortunately smudgy detail, such as it is–I cannot offhandedly find a good, clear, high resolution image of anything at all by Ms. Ottalo. This will have to do for now, but I think it gives a reasonable idea of the fineness of this work (found in Michek Thevoz’s Art Brut, Skira, 1976)–this sample detail represents less than 10% of the overall image:

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JF Ptak

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Art History — Outsider Logic — Perception