Here's Something Cool: Verny's Animals

         Here’s another amazing sculptor making amazing art out of spare parts.  Igor Verny creates creatures that are often articulated and moveable, with meticulous, masterful construction.  Unlike some of the other cool recycling sculptors I’ve featured before (such as Jeremy Mayer, Matt Wilson, Xu Bing, and Julie Alice Chappell, for example), I can’t always 

identify the parts that go into Verny’s pieces.  They’re so smoothly incorporated that they look like they were made for the parts instead of originally being made for some other purpose.  They are somewhat more like the work of Edouard Martinet, but even more “disguised.”  Somehow all these disparate pieces come together into a smooth, perfect whole.

        I don’t know much about Verny, nor do I have much to say about his artwork, except, of course, “This is so cool!”  After all, that’s the point of the “Here’s Something Cool” feature on this blog.  So I’m just sharing something I ran into on the internet and loved.  It’s worth mentioning the value of reusing items that are probably classified as trash, and how this fits in with a steampunk-adjacent aesthetic.  The wasp, in particular, has a steampunk vibe with the gold decorative elements giving it a Victorian flavor.  The adorable little robots, on the other hand, might fall under some sort of atomic“punk” category, with their mid-century futuristic optimism.

        Verny has posted several photos and short videos of work in progress, but they do little to sate my curiosity.  What are these bits and pieces he’s using?  Where does he get them?  How much does he manipulate them, as opposed to leaving them as they came?  On the dragonfly’s wings and the fish’s fins, for example, did he cut the shapes from sheet metal, or did he find some pieces that were just that shape?  What about adding the veining?  But whatever the method, I love these sculptures.  Not only would I love to own one (or more) myself, but these fill me with inspiration for things I will never be able to make.  If only I could wave a magic wand and have, just for a while, a fully-outfitted metal-working shop, and the materials and skills to play in it!

[Pictures: Goldfish, sculpture by Igor Verny, 2014;

Duck, sculpture by Verny, 2013;

Little robots, sculptures by Verny, 2019;

Dragonfly, sculpture by Verny, 2018;

Wasp, sculpture by Verny, 2015 (All images from Igor Verny on Facebook).]

Here's Something Cool: Make Your Own

         Sometimes I find fun stuff that is not exactly the subject of this blog, yet seems tangentially related - and certainly worth sharing.  Such posts are what the “cool thing” label in the sidebar represents.

        Today’s cool thing is two fun little ways to waste time on-line.  The first involves seventeenth-century copper engravings by Matthäus Merian (father of the famous Maria Sibylla Merian, about whom you can read a previous post).  Engravings that Merian made for works of natural history by Jan Jonston are cut up and recombined chimera-style by the Hybridizer, allowing you to create all manner of intriguing new beasties.  There is a delightfully wide variety of creatures including mammals, reptiles, birds, insects, and sea creatures.  There is also the added benefit that some of the animals are depicted a little oddly in the first place, making your made-up creatures even sillier.  Which one is your favorite?

        The second toy is the Historic Tale Construction Kit featuring elements from the Bayeux tapestry.  Combine and recombine all sorts of people and things in the iconic medieval embroidery style, and use them to tell your own stories or illustrate your own memes.  Its subjects are limited by the fact that the Bayeux tapestry itself is of limited subject matter, but with all the options for editing, the determined creator could no doubt depict just about anything.  What message do you think needs to be shared medieval-needlework-style?

        Allow me to encourage you to take a little break, let your imagination wander, and have some fun being as silly as you need to be to reclaim some sanity.

[Pictures: Assorted creations made on the Hybridizer and the Historic Tale Construction Kit.]

Guess That Medieval Beast 9

         It’s been quite a while since our last round of Guess That Medieval Beast, so I’ll just remind you that if you’d like to start at the beginning and test yourself with the earlier rounds, go to the Labels list in the sidebar and click on “game,” which is down near the bottom of the list.

        And now, without further ado, our Round 9 Mystery Creature!  This creature appears in a copy of Der naturen bloeme from about 1350, one of those works that is just beginning the transition from medieval bestiary to renaissance encyclopedia.  To describe this thing is perfectly straightforward: it’s a fish with hands.  It seems to be using its hands to reach its big, toothy mouth, but that’s about all the picture tells us, although it does have very nicely detailed gills, scales, and fins, and an attractive coloration.  Go ahead and make your guess: what sort of creature is this?

        Squid!

        Despite the oddity of the depictions, this is another one that makes perfect sense when you think about it.  In a world in which any creature living in the ocean was considered a fish, a squid is a fish with long arms, right?  Sometimes the arms are reaching toward the mouth, while in other depictions they look more like they’d be used for walking; sometimes the arms have monstrous claws while in other depictions they look almost like human hands.

        The only thing that puzzles me is that squid have been eaten in Europe for centuries (if not millennia) and I’d have thought that these artists would have been sufficiently familiar with calamari to know that it doesn’t look like this!  But perhaps these manuscripts were not made in coastal communities, or perhaps the people copying 

and illustrating the books simply didn’t make the connection between the Latin lolligo and whatever it is they called squid in their local vernacular.  I do notice that even the versions written in Dutch refer to the creature as “lolligo.”

        I’ve also included two illustrations of a related creature: the polipo, aka octopus.  Not surprisingly, these two creatures are often depicted in very similar ways, but the octopus does have another iconographic variant in which it is shown grabbing a human.  I’ve included one in which the octopus appears to be caressing the man, although I’m afraid its intentions are not so benign.  It also has ears and little tiny wings (which I assume are actually supposed to be fins.)  However, I particularly enjoy the final illumination in which the huge creature has reached right up into the boat to seize the sailor, and is staring him down with great intensity.  (The second sailor is clinging to the handle of his oar, but it sort of looks as if he’s taking pictures on his cell phone.  Finally we’ll have solid photographic evidence of the long-fabled giant man-eating octopus!)

        These creatures have gotten a bad rap in mythology (blame it on Pliny), but truly they are strange and alien beasts, and I don’t think our medieval illuminators can be judged too harshly for not knowing what to make of them.

[Pictures: Lolligo, illumination from Der naturen bloeme (The Flower of Nature) by Jacob van Maerlant, c 1350 (Image from Koninklijke Bibliotheek);

Lolligo, illumination from Liber de natura rerum, 1280 (Image from BMV);

Lolligo, illumination from Der naturen bloeme, c 1300-1325 (Image from British Library);

Lolligo, illumination from Der naturen bloeme, c 1450-1500;

Polipo, illumination from Der naturen bloeme, c 1300-1325 (Images from Koninklijke Bibliotheek);

Polipo, illumination from Liber de natura rerum, 1280 (Image from BMV).]

Here's Something Cool: Sneinton Dragon

         This magnificent dragon sculpture glowers over Sneinton, a suburb of Nottingham, England.  It is stainless steel, and was created in 2006 by craftsman Robert Stubley (he hesitates to call himself an artist, having been a welder by trade).  Stubley had made a few other dragon sculptures previously, apparently just for fun, but was never trained as an artist.  He’s obviously a natural.  He says, “I thought, ‘I’ll have a go at making a dragon in my spare time.’  So I made one and I just got carried away with it then, thinking, ‘How can I use this medium, stainless steel, and how can I form it, and how can I get the results that I want?’”

        Residents of Sneinton were polled as to what sort of public art they’d like, and they chose a dragon.  This may refer to the history of Sneinton, because in 1914 social historian Robert Mellors wrote, “For more than half a century there has existed in certain parts of Nottingham a monster who has devoured in the first year of their lives a large number of infants… His name is SLUM.”  On the other hand, perhaps people requested a dragon sculpture simply because dragons are cool!

        I have not been to Sneinton to see this dragon myself, but it looks most excellent.  Its wingspan is 15 or 16 feet, and it has a lovely variety of texture, from rough scales to gleaming wings.  I wish my town would put up a cool dragon sculpture like this!

[Pictures: Sneinton Dragon, stainless steel sculpture by Robert Stubley, 2006 (Photographs by KevS from Wikimedia Commons and Tracey Whitefoot from Atlas Obscura).]

Here's Something Cool: Mysteryes of Art

        John Bate first published The Mysteryes of Nature and Art, his illustrated compendium of mechanical and technological instructions, in 1634.  It proved popular for its practical instructions for how to make various fireworks, waterworks, art, and “confusedly intermixed” “extravagants.”  The book is most famous because it was a favorite of young Isaac Newton, said to have inspired him  to study science - especially in the matter of fireworks and colors.  Although there are fascinating projects described and illustrated throughout the work, I have chosen to show you some of Bate’s information about art.

        First, I give you a couple of recipes in which Bate instructs the artist on how to make colors, which makes up a major proportion of his advice.  Keep in mind that pre-made paints and inks were not available from your local craft store in the seventeenth century.  An artist had to be a chemist first.

        A Purple colour.  Take two pound of Heidleber, two ounces of Allum, halfe an ounce of ashes of Copper, halfe a pound of water; put them into a Skillet, and let them boyle till a third be consumed: when it is cold, straine it into a cleane vessell, and let it stand a while, then straine it into another, and then let it stand till it be thick enough.

        That sounds complicated enough, but rational.  However, apparently an artist had to be an alchemist, as well.  The following instructions seem to include more than a little magic:

        To write a gold colour.  Take a new hennes egge, make a hole at one end and let the substance out, then take the yolke without the white, and four times as much in quantitie of quicksilver; grinde them well together, and put them into the shell; stop the hole thereof with chalke, and the white of an egge, then lay it under an henne that sitteth with sixe more, let her sit on it three weeks, then breake it up, and write with it.

        Of course I’m most interested in what Bate has to say about printmaking.  His first edition covers only copper engraving and etching, but in the second edition, published the next year, he includes an extensive section on engraving in wood.  He says The working is farre more tedious and difficult than the working in brasse… when you have cut it so that it may be pickt out, yet if you have not a great care in picking it out, you may break out a part of your work, which may deface it…

On the other hand, for those inconveniences an Artist may finde in the practise thereof, this is one commodity he shall gaine; he shall be private in his designes; for he himselfe may print them when they are cut…  Bate and I are on the same wavelength there: much of the fun of relief printmaking is the ability to draw the design, carve the design, and print the design all myself.
        It’s fun to see how many different skills were required for the art being made 400 years ago.  I don’t think I would have been up to it.

[Pictures: frontispiece to Of Drawing, Limming, Colouring, Painting, and Graving;

A very easie way to describe a Towne, or Castle: being within the full sight thereof;

Of Gravers, all wood block prints from The Mysteries of Nature and Art (second edition) by John Bate, 1635 (Image from Internet Archive).]

Here's Something Cool: TARDIS Refrigerator

        Here’s a clever novelty for the serious fan: transforming a refrigerator or door of your house.  Dr Who’s TARDIS makes a great subject for this because it’s a roughly compatible in size and shape to a refrigerator, of course, but also because one could believe that the actual TARDIS had materialized in the kitchen wall, the sort of thing it might plausibly do.

        When I got poking around, I found a number of other nice sci fi/fantasy ideas for door transformations: a slab of carbonite with Han Solo encased, the west gate of Moria, any sort of Top Secret lab door… 
        I found a picture of an R2-D2 refrigerator, but it would really be better for a mini-fridge that is the right size.  Also, it’s never going to be perfect unless you actually make a rounded top for it, so what R2-D2 does lend himself to is a trash bin.  I went looking, and sure enough…

        Naturally I most admire the hand-made transformations for fridges or other doors, but it turns out that there are quite a few places where you can buy “skins” on-line, featuring photos that can be adhered to the surface of your choice.  I have to suspect that very few of these stores actually have permission to legally sell licensed property from Dr Who or Star Wars or anything else.  However, here’s a nice hand-made bookshelf that’s another TARDIS.

        I’m not the sort to want something like this front and center (and large) in my house.  I think the cooler option might be something like a Narnia mural on the back wall of your coat closet.  You could even add a lamppost light back there.  Or what about turning a dog- or cat-flap into a mini entrance to Hogwarts’s Chamber of Secrets, or into a small door like in Alice in Wonderland?

                        Doors are undeniably special (says the author of The Extraordinary Book of Doors), so it’s easy to see the appeal of adding some magic to the everyday doors in our lives.  What door (or other household object) would you most like to transform?

[Pictures: TARDIS refrigerator from here;

R2-D2 trash bins from here and here;

TARDIS bookcase from here;
Dangerous door from here.]

Here's Something Cool: Hobbit Holes

        Have you ever wanted your own hobbit-hole?  Of course you have, for that, as Tolkien says, means comfort.  And now you can - or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof.  There’s a company in Maine (Wooden Wonders) that makes sheds with rounded roofs and round windows and doors.  They can be used as playhouses, tool sheds, chicken coops… These are already pretty cute, but what makes the possibility of really enticing a hobbit is that there is an option for a sod roof, so that you can landscape the whole thing to look like a tunnel into a hill.  And that’s Something Cool.

        There’s really nothing more to say.  How much analysis do you need?  But I include another picture that’s perhaps what you get when you cross hobbits with elves: no longer a hobbit hole, but equally magical.  How I would have loved either of these options as a playhouse when I was little!  And I would be more than happy to have either of them now as a shed or… No, who am I kidding?  I still want it as a playhouse.

[Pictures: photos of “Hobbit Holes” from Wooden Wonders.]

Here's Something Cool: Fairy Doors

        Ann Arbor, Michigan is known for its urban fairy population, as evidenced by their doors, which can be spotted all around the city.  The first public fairy door appeared outside a coffee and tea shop in 2005, followed by about twenty others.  Some have subsequently disappeared again when their host premises closed.  Doors have appeared in neighboring towns, as well.  I don’t know whether the fairy doors of Ann Arbor are responsible for starting the crafting fashion for fairy gardens, but I particularly like the unique nature of these doors.  Going to the craft shop and buying a selection of pre-made fairy miniatures is fun, but crafting doors that are personalized to their location is definitely much cooler.  Some of these quirks include doors that match the human-sized entryways beside them, as at the Red Shoes gift shop, and a fairy ATM outside the Bank of Ann Arbor.  (I assume a fairy ATM spits out leprechaun gold, rather than bills.)  Particularly fun are the doors with windows that allow a peek inside.

        The doors were started by Jonathan B. Wright, whose first installations were done in secret.  The mythology is that these urban fairies come and go on a whim, so that doors can appear and disappear without warning.  Lots of other people have now gotten involved, including homeowners, who often host suburban or woodland fairies who dwell in trees.  Some shops and public buildings have doors inside, as well.
        Ann Arbor is certainly not the only place with fairy doors, and probably not the first, but it is one of the areas that has most embraced this form of public art.  If I owned a shop - or even a house on a street with much walking traffic - I would love to do this.  In my youth one of my primary artsy-craftsy activities was making dollhouses and other miniatures, so obviously this would be right up my alley.  (Admittedly I’d have to put some thought into how to make something weather-proof for outdoor installation, but I’m sure I could manage it.)  What fun it would be to start the tradition in my town!

        To my dismay, it seems that the doors do get vandalized from time to time.  How depressing to think about how miserable someone has to be to look for satisfaction in destroying that which makes others happy.  Nevertheless, the fairies seem to be resilient, and I wish them the very best of luck!  I’m absolutely tickled by these charming little creations that reward observation and imagination.

[Pictures: Fairy door at Red Shoes Homegoods;

Vault door and ATM at Bank of Ann Arbor;

Door at The Michigan Theater;

Door at Sweetwaters Coffee and Tea;

Door and bookshelf house at Ann Arbor District Library;

Door at Kay Wilson Dentistry (Images from Wikimedia Commons and from urban fairies operations (web site of Jonathan B. Wright).)]

Here's Something Cool: Mechanical Nef

        This amazing renaissance creation definitely gets some sort of fantasy cred, despite being 100% historically for real.  On the hour the model galleon bursts into life, with three heralds and seven or eight prince electors parading past the emperor on the deck, while ten trumpets, a drum, and a timpani play music, and various sailors move among the ropes and ring bells in the crows nest.  It even trundles across the table and fires a cannon with a puff of smoke.  You can see a video showing the elaborate golden decor, the clockwork, and the  various movements, here.  (The narration is in French, but there’s not much narration anyway.  Mostly it’s just the ship doing its thing.)

         It’s credited to one Hans Schlottheim (Germany, 1544/1547-1625 or-6), who was originally a travelling watchmaker who went on to work in the courts of Bavaria, Prague, and Saxony.  He may have devised the clockwork, with additional goldsmiths and artisans helping with the decor.  This nef may have been in the collection of Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II, or perhaps the Elector of Saxony.  This particular nef is one of three similar ones, of which historian Lisa Jardine observes “The rich,… the aristocracy, everybody wanted to own a bit of technology - something with cogs and wheels and winding bits… It immediately fascinates everyone that you can wind something up and it goes without your touching it.  Clockwork is magic in the sixteenth century.”  And really, even knowing that it’s all mechanical, it’s hard not to think some wizardry must have been involved just to figure out how to put it all
together and make it work.  The clockwork was cutting edge, and so was the subject: this sort of ship was on the verge of conquering the Earth, the renaissance equivalent of the space shuttle.  Note, too, the wonderful pegasus and sea monsters wreathing the ship at the water line.  Marvelous stuff!

        Here’s another of Schlottheim’s automata, a belltower from about 1580.  And here is another video, showing the working of another of his galleons.  These magical clockwork toys were made as dinner table decorations that would most definitely have impressed the guests at banquets.  It certainly makes a centerpiece of flowers seem ordinary!  (Although flowers, too, have their magic, not to be underestimated.)

[Pictures: Nef of Charles Quint, by Hand Sclottheim, c 1580 (Image from Artsy);

Glockenturmautomat (Bell tower automata) by Schlottheim, c 1580 (Image from Kunst Historisches Museum Wien).]

Quotation from Jardine in A History of the World in 100 Objects, by Neil MacGregor, 2010.

Here's Something Cool: Mechanical Birds

        It’s time for another selection of gorgeous steampunky sculptures, and this time I have for you two artists whose birds come out quite different in style, but who both assemble their sculptures from very specific found objects.

        Jeremy Mayer made these swallows entirely from parts of old typewriters.  They include absolutely nothing that isn’t from the typewriters - not even glue or solder.  The outer stretch of the wings can fan in and out, which makes them seem that much more like robots or automatons rather than mere objects d’art.  What’s so much fun about them is that the typewriter parts are not in any way disguised or transformed, they’re very clearly still recognizable typewriter parts, and yet when assembled in this way they simultaneously become 100% swallows.

        Matt Wilson (aka Airtight Artwork), on the other hand, builds his birds almost entirely from silverware, adding only a bit of wire and sometimes other bits of scrap metal, and mounting them on wood.  These are certainly art sculptures, not robots(!), but they share with Mayer’s swallows that incredible property of reusing objects intended for something entirely different, and yet making them seem as if they must have been designed precisely for
their current spot.  The curves of spoons, the serrations of knife blades, the feathers - I mean
tines - of the forks…  Wilson’s birds are also amazing for what they don’t include.  There is often quite a bit of negative space in his designs, hollow areas, details left out, and yet they include everything necessary to capture the perfect essence of titmouse, nuthatch, or wren.  The other thing I find great about them is that they’re made from very ordinary, junky silverware.  I’ve seen plenty of lovely things made from lovely antique silver spoons, but it’s all the more wonderful to make such objects of beauty from something that really doesn’t seem at all beautiful before its transformation.

        Both of these artists have the wonderful gift of seeing the beautiful potential in something not very beautiful, and of course they also both have the gift of being able to make that transformation so that the rest of us can see it, too.  Charms, transfiguration, or illusion, it’s surely some kind of magic.

        (See some previously posted cool Mechanical Treasures here.)

[Pictures: Typewriter part swallows, assembled sculptures by Jeremy Mayer, c 2013 (Images from Colossal);

Silverware birds, sculptures by Matt Wilson, c 2017 (Images from Colossal and My Modern Met).]

Here's Something Cool: Arisia Art

        Here are a couple of my fellow artists from the Arisia Art Show this past weekend, whose work particularly tickled my fancy.  (They weren’t the only ones I liked - not by a long stretch, but if you want to see everyone who was involved, here’s the list of artists who showed at Arisia this year.)

        So, first the papier maché critters of Kimberly’s Creatures.  Their exterior is fabric, which makes them feel a little sturdier and more finished than just the newspaper interior construction.  Some are quite traditional dragons, and some are strange and wonderful variants of fish, birds,  insects, and who-knows-what.  Most are scaled, with plenty of horns and teeth.   They are definitely in the same family as Mexican folk art alebrijes.

        My daughter T and I each voted for a creature (although not the same one) as our favorite 3D work at Arisia.  These critters have such a nice whimsy: cute but not too cutesy.  Although there are certainly plenty that are similar to each other, each one is unique, and they have a bit of personality that makes them especially fun.  If there were any really small ones, I might have adopted one, but alas I really can’t take on the care of something so big (even the smallest are about a foot long).  So I simply admire them from afar, and share them with you.

        Second, an artist with a completely different medium, style, and content: Drew Merger of The Corey Press and his “traditional” block prints of aliens, cthulhu, and other weirdness.  Rather than cuteness, he celebrates the dark and grotesque.  In truth, much of his work is a little too dark and grotesque for me!  But what I do really enjoy is the way he plays with all those same traditional wood block prints that I’ve featured here in the past: Holbein’s Totentanz, Magnus’s History of the Nordic Peoples, Wolgemut’s Nuremberg Chronicle, Alciato’s Emblemata, and any number of broadsides and other early prints.  Some of his pieces are copied quite closely from old prints, with just the small matter of adding aliens or

monsters.  Others are more entirely new, but still in the style of early woodcuts.  My husband D especially enjoyed them.  Merger appears to carve in linoleum, but he prints on wood instead of paper, which is an interesting reversal of the traditional medium.

        And next month I’ll be on to the art show at Boskone 55.  I don’t know how many of the same fantasy artists will be there, but you can see that I’ll be in good company!

[Pictures: Larry, cloth and papier maché sculpture by Kimberly’s Creatures;

Haloisi (Sea Storm), cloth and papier maché sculpture by Kimberly’s Creatures;

Buck Toothed Merloc SunFish, cloth and papier maché sculpture by Kimberly’s Creatures (Images from Kimberly’s Creatures);

The Doom that Came to Westport, block print on wood by Drew Merger;

Ego Quid Videret (I Could See), block print on wood by Drew Merger (Images from The Corey Press).]

Here's Something Cool: Mystery Manuscript

        I love a good historical and linguistic mystery and this is one of the best.  The Voynich Manuscript is a 15th century codex handwritten in an undeciphered writing system and illustrated with unidentified figures.  Its 240 or so pages are divided into six sections based on the illustrations and format, and these include unidentified plants, astrology, rather symbolic biological images, “circular diagrams of an obscure nature,” and vaguely apothecary-ish themes.  The pictures are fairly crude, but the alphabet is really quite beautiful.  It seems as if it might have something to do with herbology, women’s medicine, and astrology, but of course nobody knows, what with it being undeciphered and all.

        Wilfrid Voynich was the book dealer who acquired the manuscript in 1912, but it has quite a long and fascinating provenance.  In 1637 Georg Baresch, an alchemist from Prague, sent my man Athanasius Kircher a sample of the text asking for his help deciphering it, since Kircher had claimed to have decoded Egyptian hieroglyphics.  Baresch called the book a Sphynx “taking up space uselessly” in his library, but nevertheless refused to send Kircher the whole thing.  The next owner, however, gave Kircher the book, noting that he had been told it was bought by Emperor Rudolph II (1552-1612) for 600 gold ducats.  There is some evidence that Rudolph could have bought it from English astrologer John Dee, although this is speculation.  At any rate, we don’t know what Kircher made of the

mysterious language, and the book presumably went with all the rest of his papers into the library of the Collegio Romano, where it lay until 1870.  At that point we catch a glimpse of it being spirited into the personal library of the university’s rector in order to preserve it from confiscation by Victor Immanuel II of Italy when he captured the city, and then returned to the college in a new location.  Forty years later the college sold it to Voynich, and eventually it was given to Yale University by book dealer Hans Kraus in 1969 after he failed to sell it.

        So, what is this mysterious thing and why has no one made any progress decoding its mysterious language?  If indeed it even has any meaning?  Among those who have tried to decipher the manuscript are (possibly) Dee, whose son reported that Dee had owned “a booke… containing nothing butt Hieroglyphicks, which booke his father bestowed much time upon;” and Baresch, who “devoted unflagging toil” to the task; and Kircher, whose thoughts we have no record of.  Moreover, the manuscript was examined and hypothesized over by several distinguished professors in the early 20th century, and by

codebreakers from World War I and World War II.  William Friedman, most  famous for breaking Japan’s PURPLE cipher during World War II, spent much of his free time over four decades trying to decipher the Voynich Manuscript, before finally admitting defeat.  Recent computer analyses suggest that the language is not entirely consistent with natural languages (as opposed to artificial language), and that its writing flows more smoothly than is consistent with encryption.

        What do we know?  Its origin is most likely Central Europe.  Analysis of the vellum tells us not only the date (1404-1438) but also that the vellum was not previously used and that it all comes from a single area.  This rules out all possibility of modern forgery as it would be impossible to collect that much unused ancient vellum from a single source.  All the inks and paints are also consistent with the same date.  This date of origin contradicts the early and popular claims of authorship by English polymath and possibly wizard Roger Bacon (1214-1294), who would be much too early.  It also casts some doubt on claims that the manuscript was made in the seventeenth century as a hoax intended to fool Baresch and/or Kirscher.

        So we don’t know much, but what have we speculated?  Almost everything.  Some of the more intriguing possibilities include glossolalia or similarities to Asian languages.  Some of the less possible possibilities include an author from ancient Egypt or outer space.  At any rate, I think it’s something cool!  As the author of the letter to Kircher wrote in 1665/6, “such Sphinxes as these obey no one but their master.”

        You can see the whole weird thing here, courtesy of Yale’s Beinecke Library.

[Pictures: pages from the Voynich Manuscript, early 15th century (Images from Yale University).]

Here's Something Cool: Fenghuang

        I like mythical creatures, and I like sculptures made from found mechanical bits and pieces, and these phoenixes check both boxes on a massive scale.  I featured the artist Xu Bing earlier this year for his wood block prints, but these sculptures begin to give you an idea of the breadth and variety of his artwork.  The two phoenixes are made from materials collected from construction sites in China.  At 90 and 100 feet long, they’re almost more roc than phoenix!

        The Chinese phoenix is called "fenghuang," and originally feng was male and huang female, which is what Xu has named his two huge sculptures.  Although fenghuang is given the English translation “phoenix,” the only thing they really have in common is being magical, mythical birds.  The fenghuang lives on the Kunlun Mountains in northern China and appears only in places blessed with exceptional peace and happiness.  It became associated with the empress, to pair with the dragon representing the emperor, and now the paired dragon and phoenix are often used in wedding decorations to symbolize the perfect union between husband and wife.  (“Dragon and phoenix” is also a common item on Chinese menus.  In the USA it’s a dish that combines chicken with seafood.  Additional fun fact: my children P and T are “dragon and phoenix children,” i.e. boy-girl twins.)  In any case, the fenghuang represents all sorts of auspicious virtues.

        Xu’s Feng and Huang represent the cultural changes brought on by rapid development in China, and they’re a reaction to the terrible conditions experienced by migrant construction workers in China.  Xu said of his phoenixes, “They bear countless scars.  [They have] lived through great hardship, but they still have self-respect.  In general, the phoenix expresses unrealized hopes and dreams.”  You can see that they’re entirely composed of salvaged construction materials: rusty metal, battered hard hats, ductwork tubing, backhoe buckets, and so on.  I haven’t seen these sculptures in person, alas, but from the photos I’d say they don’t seem so grim to me.  They look quite powerful and transcendent.

[Pictures: Phoenix installation at MassMoCA, sculptures by Xu Bing, 2013 (Image from The Daily Gazette);

Feng at Cathedral of St John the Divine, sculpture by Xu, 2014 (Image from Bobby Zuco);

Huang at Mass MoCA, sculpture by Xu, 2013, (Image from Colossal).]

Here's Something Cool: Fantastic Arch

        This twelfth century carved stone arch from France now resides in the Met Cloisters in New York.  It is its own mini bestiary, including wonderful depictions of some of our old fantasy favorites.  From left to right we get a manticore, a pelican (not fantasy, but a staple of medieval mythology), a basilisk/cockatrice, a harpy, a griffin, a wyvern, a centaur, and a lion (also not fantasy, of course).  The anonymous artist or artists who produced these carvings had a sure hand and a great eye for detail.  I love the textures of feathers, scales, and fur, and the botanical flourishes on the lower planes of the arch.  My favorite thing, however, is the care put into the creatures’ tails, an appendage that might have been an afterthought for lesser artists.  The manticore, basilisk, and wyvern all have serpent-headed tails.  The wyvern seems almost to be consulting with his tail’s head, and the basilisk sharing an affectionate kiss with his, but the wyvern’s tail is biting him on the bum!  Meanwhile the harpy and centaur have tails sprouting into luxuriant flourishes of foliage, and the lion’s tail looks like one of those electrostatic dusters as seen on TV, a very useful beast.  These are tails worth telling!

[Picture: Arch with eight animals, marble carving by anonymous sculptor, c 1150-75 (Image from The Met).]

Here's Something Cool: Cypher Book

        From time to time I come across nifty things that catch my fancy, and I file them away for possible future sharing.  But many of them never seem to fit into a particular theme, or I don’t really have enough information for a substantive post, and I never end up sharing them after all.  Well, all that is about to end.  I hereby initiate a new category of blog posts: Here’s Something Cool!

        First up is a sixteenth century cypher machine in the shape of a book.  This is emblazoned with the arms of Henri II of France, so presumably was made for him or his agents, but more than that I cannot tell you.  The object is in the collection of the Musée Renaissance in the Chateau de’Écouen, but a search of the museum’s website reveals no additional pictures or information, so I am left with nothing but questions.  How was this cypher machine used?  Half the dials have Roman numerals, while the other half appear to be blank, except for a single C or crescent on each one.  The large dial on the left is marked with numerals, and spins within a ring of letters.  The whole thing is in the shape of a book.  Is it disguised as a book, or merely whimsically decorated in that shape?  Was it used for serious espionage, or novelty entertainment?  Who invented it and who made it?  Henri II was the inventor of the patent, or at least the first government to introduce the idea of patents for inventions.  Does this mean he was particularly interested in inventions, or particularly supportive of inventors?  If there’s a patent for this cypher machine, no one’s mentioned it.

        Henri’s mistress, favorite, and veritable co-ruler was Diane de Poitiers, whose emblem was the crescent moon.  It can hardly be coincidence that this device is decorated so lavishly with crescents, as spokes on the dials, etched between all the dials, and so on.  Does that indicate that Henri and Diane used this encoder for their private communication, or that it was made for Diane’s use in her own political and diplomatic endeavors, or simply that the craftsman figured Henri would be pleased to see Diane’s emblem along with his own?

        In another fun note, Henri II was the son of Francis I for whom, according to my fantasy, The Extraordinary Books of Doors were made.  Since Francis died before their completion, it was to Henri II that Sebastiano Serlio would have presented his magical masterpiece.  So, did Henri take after his father in having a particular predilection for magical devices disguised as ordinary books?  It certainly is fun to speculate.

        As for this Cool Thing, its design is beautiful, its workmanship is impressive, and its history is just a a big, fascinating question mark.

[Picture: French cypher machine in the shape of a book, between 1547-1559 (Image from Wikimedia Commons).]