Some really amazing pieces. May have to see if it’s possible to pick up a print or two myself.
Artist Stephen Mackey.
Some really amazing pieces. May have to see if it’s possible to pick up a print or two myself.
Artist Stephen Mackey.
This project actually started way back in 2006 or so when I decided I wanted to sculpt my interpretation of the Black Rabbit of Inlé from Richard Adams‘ Watership Down.
I was still pretty new to sculpting, but ended up making something I was really happy with and that marked a pretty big turning point for me, both in terms of style and subject.
Last summer, a couple purchased the original piece (you can find photos of it posted here on my tumblr, quite a few pages back), and paid me to create a more detailed base for the piece, and gave me free rein, creatively speaking, to do so.
Talk about an incredibly difficult novel to market. As Richard Adams’ publisher noted to an associate, “I’ve just taken on a novel about rabbits, one of them with extra-sensory perception. Do you think I’m mad?”
The subject of this sculpture, “The Black Rabbit of Inlé”, is a grim reaper figure with touches of Mictlanteuhctli (ignore the spelling on Wikipedia; they use the more popular but linguistically inaccurate transcription of the name) who as the servant of the rabbit god, Frith (the Sun) is responsible for ensuring that all rabbits die at their appropriate time.
Sculptor Rachel Young via Black Rabbit Sculpture.
History and mythology make for strange bedfellows, and few stranger times than the story of Pope Sylvester II (pope from 999-1003 C.E.) and the succubus.
First, though, let’s talk a little about succubi – you know, those sexy female demons so popular in medieval and modern narratives, from movies to television series to books to pen and paper games to video games.
In modern convention, succubi seduce men and drain the life force (sometimes simply blood) during sex, so more or less a sexy energy vampire.
The original succubus, however, were decidedly odder. The infamous 15th century witch hunter manual The Malleus Maleficarum (or in English, “The Witch’s Hammer”) was condemned by the Catholic Church three years after its publication, though it nevertheless became an very important resource in the brutal prosecution of witchcraft in Europe over the next couple of centuries.
The author of the Malleus Maleficarum, a German inquisitor by the name of Heinrich Kramer, concluded that succubi and their male counterparts, incubi – were in fact the same creature. The seeming procreative capabilities of the incubus was simply the act of the demon first taking the form of a beautiful woman to collect the semen of a mortal man, and then, before said semen went bad, to travel quickly to a supplicant woman who wished to become pregnant. Taking then the form of the male incubus, the demon would then impregnate her.
Yes, the succubus was originally conceived of as an erotic hermaphrodite.
But what about this pope I mentioned above? Ah, yes. That would be Pope Sylvester II, born Gerbert d’Aurillac in the Kingdom of France, he studied magical arts and astrology in the Islamic cities of Cordoba and Seville (remember, at that time the Iberian Peninsula was under Muslim rule), and was the source of a number of fascinating stories, including one where he had a mechanic device in the shape of a head that would answer truly questions put to it in the form of yes/no propositions.
Stranger even than the brazen head, however, is his reputed pact with a succubus by the name of Meridiana. After d’Aurillac had been rejected romantically, he made a pact with her in order to ascend the papal throne.
Meridiana warned d’Aurillac that if he should ever read a mass in Jerusalem, the Devil himself would come to him. Canceling his pilgrimage to Jerusalem, d’Aurillac thought he had dodged a bullet (or rather, a crossbow bolt). After reading mass in the church in Rome by the name of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme – that is, “The Holy Cross of Jerusalem” – d’Aurillac became deathly sick.
In one version of subsequent events, the Devil mutilated him, granting d’Aurillac’s own gouged out eyes to petty demons for them to play with. Repenting, d’Aurillac cut off his hand and tongue.
Not in the historical record, unfortunately, is whether the succubus Meridiana got a promotion in the Infernal Hierarchy for her exemplary professional work.
Via Wikipedia.
Before David Lynch’s film adaptation of Frank Herbert‘s epic novel Dune, where was another, wilder, almost insane film adaptation that came crazily close to being filmed before the plug was abruptly pulled.
The story of that undone film is, truly, as epic as Herbert’s masterpiece.
In December 1974, a French consortium led by Jean-Paul Gibon purchased the film rights to Frank Herbert’s epic 1965 science fiction novel Dune and asked [Alejandro] Jodorowsky to direct a film version.
The film has received critical acclaim. Variety called the film a “mind-blowing cult movie” and said that director Pavich “happens upon a compelling theory: that even in its still-born form, the film manifested the sort of collective conscious that Jodorowsky was trying to peddle through its plot, trickling down to influence other sci-fi films that followed”.
The list of illuminaries successfully recruited for the aborted measure is frankly mind-numbing:
If that and the literally phonebook-sized script was not staggering to the senses enough, check out some of the LSD-inspired (no, really, Jodorowsky in a documentary on the effort talks about how he was trying to replicate the sensations of an LSD trip) visuals:
Via Wikipedia.
[D]esigner Kevin Weir uses historical black and white photographs to transform them into quirky animated GIFs. He got into making black and white GIFs as a way to occupy himself during the downtime of an internship he had during grad school.
The basis of his works are old pictures he finds in the Library of Congress online archive.
I wonder if he takes requests…?
Also, check out this awesome music video he made:
Artist Kevin Weir via IGANT for more.
Part science fiction, part dystopian future, the scenes are equally disturbing and beautiful, his characters inhabiting a world Andreev [says] is deeply influenced by Soviet-era literature, music and movies.
Alex Andreev via Colossal for the full article and more examples of Andreev’s work.
Andreev’s work is available in an art book A Separate Reality available via Blurb.com.
Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli was an Italian historian, politician, diplomat, philosopher, humanist, and writer based in Florence during the Renaissance.
He was for many years an official in the Florentine Republic, with responsibilities in diplomatic and military affairs. He was a founder of modern political science, and more specifically political ethics.
He wrote his masterpiece, The Prince [in 1513], [h]owever the printed version was not published until 1532, five years after Machiavelli’s death.
Even today the term “Machiavellian” is shorthand for “political ruthlessness”, and controversy about the work had arisen even in the years before it was officially published.
The Prince proposed an ethos that directly conflicted with the accepted Catholic doctrine of proper governing and the rights and responsibilities of rulership. Indeed, on its face the treatise appears outright sociopathic.
The descriptions within The Prince have the general theme of accepting that the aims of princes – such as glory and survival – can justify the use of immoral means to achieve those ends.
[T]he treatise is the most remembered of Machiavelli’s works and the one most responsible for bringing the word “Machiavellian” into usage as a pejorative. It also helped make “Old Nick” an English term for the devil.
There’s just one problem: By all contemporary accounts, Niccolò Machiavelli was no sociopath.
On the contrary, Machiavelli was generally considered to be strongly in support of the idea of some kind of free republic as opposed to the tyrannical and frankly bloodthirsty politics of Italy of his time.
The Prince recommends to rulers the ways to gain glory, along with the virtues of fear. The book was then, as now, frankly shocking to its readers, and it has been suggested that this may have been, well, the actual point.
In other words, it is entirely possible that The Prince was…satire?
The “virtues” extolled were supposed to sound horrific, base, and by unveiling them in their honesty he may have hoped to shame and expose them, exactly as Stephen Colbert does in his popular The Colbert Report.
Despite that most people took The Prince at as much face value as people sometimes embarrassingly take The Onion, the idea that The Prince was satire is far from a new one.
On the contrary, it was a common interpretation during the Enlightenment of the 18th century in Europe.
French philosopher Rousseau wrote in the Social Contract:
“[B]eing attached to the court of the Medici, [Machiavelli] could not help veiling his love of liberty in the midst of his country’s oppression. The choice of his detestable hero, Caesar Borgia, clearly enough shows his hidden aim; and the contradiction between the teaching of the Prince and that of the Discourses on Livy and the History of Florence shows that this profound political thinker has so far been studied only by superficial or corrupt readers.”
This is far from the only interpretation, of course. One of the more ingenious suggestions is that Machiavelli intended The Prince not as satire, but as a memetic worm. That is, that he intended it to be embraced by the people he loathed because it flattered their own instincts, and in their execution of the proscriptions of The Prince they would find their own undoing in the overreach of their own ends.
(It should be remembered that after Machiavelli’s Florentine militia, whom he had helped to build into an effective force, was defeated by the Medici in 1512, Machiavelli was subjected to torture on accusations of conspiracy against the Medici family.)
So there you have it: Machiavelli: The Anti-Machiavellian Hero of the People!
Quoted text via Wikipedia.