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Hu Zhengyan (c. 1584-1674) was a Chinese traditional painter, calligrapher, seal carver and publisher during the transition of the Ming and Qing dynasties. He produced China’s first printed publication in color, and was famous for his incredible techniques achieving gradation and modulation of shades in woodblock prints.

 

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Free download under CC Attribution (CC BY 2.0). Please credit the artist and rawpixel.com

 

Hu Zhengyan (c. 1584-1674) was a Chinese traditional painter, calligrapher, seal carver and publisher during the transition of the Ming and Qing dynasties. He produced China’s first printed publication in color, and was famous for his incredible techniques achieving gradation and modulation of shades in woodblock prints.

 

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Yoko Ono

 

It was a sad and a little spooky to walk into the Dakota on this dark and rainy winter night, an evening not unlike the one on which John Lennon was killed here twelve years earlier. It seemed like no time had passed since I stood here in shocked silence with hundreds of others on the terrible day after, the old iron gate woven with flowers. And now I was back at that same gate, but this time with an appointment to go inside and talk to Yoko. To enter the old building, one passes through the bleak guard’s station, a gloomy room made more mournful by the recognition that this was where John staggered and fell, before being taken to the hospital.

 

But none of this gloom pervades the warm, elegant interior of Yoko’s apartment, with it’s enormous windows overlooking Central Park, the rainy streets below sparkling like glass. As you enter the apartment, you’re asked to take off your shoes in traditional Japanese style (having known this in advance I wore my best socks), and ushered by one of her assistants into the famous “white room,” with its giant white couch and tuxedo-white grand piano. It was at that keyboard that John was filmed performing “Imagine” as Yoko slowly opened up the blinds, letting in light.

 

Suddenly she arrived- she didn’t seem to walk in the room, but somehow simply appeared- and her gentle demeanour and warm smile instantly caused all nervousness to dissolve. As soon as I met Yoko, I understood why John loved her. She’s charming and beautiful, with a gentle smile in her eyes that photos never seem to reveal. Though she was a few months shy of 60 when we met, she looked younger and prettier than ever, especially without the dark aviator shades she wore like a veil through much of the last decade. In their place, she wore clear, round spectacles, the kind still commonly referred to as “John Lennon glasses.” She was barefoot, and in blue jeans, and nestled comfortably on the white couch.

 

Yoko’s speaking voice is soft and melodious, her accent bending English into musical, Japanese cadences. Contrary to the usual depictions of her in the press, she’s quite humorous, joking frequently and punctuating her comments with little bursts of laughter. She’s also quite humble about her work and her influence on John and other artists. “People can listen to the music,” she suggested softly, “and make their own judgement.”

 

“spring passes

and one remembers one’s innocence

summer passes

and one remembers one’s exuberance

autumn passes

and one remembers one’s reverence

winter passes and one remembers one’s perseverance

there is a season that never passes

and that is the season of glass”

 

-Yoko Ono, 1981

 

She wrote this poem more than a decade ago now, a time she said “passed in high speed.” And like so many of the songs she wrote herself and with John, the truth in them remains constant, undiminished by passing time. In this verse she miraculously conveyed what millions around the world were feeling during those dark days following that darkest day in December of 1980 when John died. That this was a season that wouldn’t pass, a tragedy that wouldn’t be trivialized by time, a wound that wouldn’t heal. And in a way, we didn’t want it to.

 

But perhaps the one thing that has shifted since then is that the work of Yoko Ono can begin to be seen in a new light. Rykodisk Records released a six-CD set of Yoko’s recorded works call Onobox in 1992, and for the still uninitiated this collection serves well as a revelation about one of the world’s most famous yet still misunderstood songwriters.

 

Known for the high-pitched, passionate kind of “Cold Turkey” wailing she has employed through the years- what she refers to as “voice modulations”- in truth she sings the majority of her songs in clear and gentle tones, usually wrapped in rich layers of vocal harmonies. When her father discovered that Yoko as a teen wanted to be a composer, he objected and suggested instead that she become a professional singer. “I knew the whole world would laugh”, she said, cognizant of the common misconceptions about her music, “but I had a good voice.” She studied piano and music theory while growing up in Japan, and can both read and transcribe music- something none of the Beatles ever learned.

 

She’s a musician who worked in experimental music for years before she inspired and aided in the creation of “Revolution 9,” the most avant-garde track ever included on a Beatles’ album. In New York circa 1965, along with the composer John Cage and others, Yoko delved into areas of “imaginary music” and “invisible sounds,” concentrating on the creation of an unwritten music, a music that transcended our need to notate. “You can’t translate the more complex sounds into traditional notation,” she said. “I wanted to capture the sounds of birds singing in the woods…”

 

She put on concerts with great jazz musicians like Ornette Coleman and Charlie Haden in the years before John insisted she record her songs with some of his “friends,” an above-average assemblage of musicians that included George Harrison, Eric Clapton, Klaus Voorman and Ringo Starr. Most of her work with this group were jams at first, musical improvisations based on her poems. But gradually she started crafting songs, composing melodies as eloquent as her poetry. And contrary to the idea that John arranged and produced her songs, Yoko always had a firm grasp on the translation of her inner visions into recorded music. “Though, of course, you do make little mistakes,” she admitted, laughing.

 

She’s known both dire poverty and great wealth in her life, and has boomeranged between the two. She was born in Tokyo into a wealthy banking family in March of 1933, the Year of the Bird. The descendant of a ninth century emperor, she was raised mostly by servants as her father was often away on business in America, and her mother tended to social obligations. When she was 11 in wartime 1945, much of Tokyo was being destroyed by American bombers, and her family were forced, in her father’s absence, to flee from their home. Yoko was sent by her mother with her brother and sister to a small village called Karuizawa. Until the end of the war they lived there in a little house on a cornfield, raising money by selling off kimonos and other possessions until they simply had to beg for food from door to door. Yoko and the other children were almost always hungry. After the war the family was able to gradually return to their wealthy lifestyle.

 

Yoko’s father decided to pursue business in America, and the family moved to suburban New York. Yoko attended Sarah Lawrence College in Scarsdale and began spending a lot of time in Manhattan. It was there that she met a young Japanese composer named Toshi Ichiyangi who was studying at Juilliard. In time she moved into a loft with Toshi and married him, much to her parent’s dismay, and the two experienced a repeat of the poverty Yoko knew as a child.

 

In New York Yoko began to gradually establish a reputation for herself as an avant-garde performance artist. She put on a series of shows at the Carnegie Hall Recital Hall, performances such as the infamous “Cut Piece” in which she sat onstage in a black shroud holding scissors and invited the audience to step up and cut away portions of her gown, which they did, until she was nearly naked. She also wrote and published a book of instructions on how to see the world in new ways called Grapefruit, and launched a movement known as “Bagism” in which people would be invited to come onstage and get into large black bags with other people, their mysterious shapes creating an ever-moving art piece. She divorced Toshi around this time and married New York artist Tony Cox, with whom she had a daughter, Kyoko.

 

Yoko met John Lennon in London 1966 at the Indica Gallery. It was the ninth of November, the number nine always prominent in their lives. When they eventually came together, many months after that evening, they made art before they ever made love, collaborating on the experimental recording Two Virgins until sunrise.

 

For days before John died, he and Yoko had been busy in New York’s Hit Factory working on a song that surprised both of them for its fire and passion, Yoko’s amazing “Walking on Thin Ice.” Though they had released their dialogue of the heart, Double Fantasy, only weeks earlier and it was racing up the Top Ten, nothing on it matched the pure electric fury of this record. “It was as if we were both haunted by the song,” Yoko wrote in the liner notes for the single. “I remember I woke up in the morning and found John watching the sunrise and still listening to the song. He said I had to put it out right away as a single.”

The next music of Yoko’s we heard was the album she started working on just months after John’s death, Season of Glass. It’s a phenomenal work, expressing the sequence of emotions she experienced, passing through shock, denial, outrage, madness, horror, pure sadness, and ultimately unconditional, undying love. It’s an undeniable masterpiece of songwriting straight from the soul, and even critics who routinely attacked her music for years recognized in print the pure, naked power of this album.

 

Some of Yoko’s sweetest love songs are here, such as the Spanish-tinged “Mindweaver,” “Even When You’re Far Away,” and the irrepressible “Nobody Sees Me Like You Do.” It also contains recordings of found sounds that expressed this time in her life: gunshots, screams, and her son Sean’s voice. As always, she left no barriers between her life and her art, which is immediately apparent on the album’s cover. It’s a photograph she took in early morning with the skyline of Manhattan across Central Park looking purple and blurry in the background. In the forefront there’s a table top on which sits the clear-rimmed spectacles John was wearing the night he was shot, one half splattered with blood, reflected in the transparent surface of the table. Beside the spectacles is a glass halfway full of water.

 

As Yoko expected, many people were outraged by this image. But they missed the fact that she was simply revealing the actuality of her life in her art as she always has, refusing to hide the real horror she had to endure. “It was like I was underwater,” she confirmed. “Like I was covered in blood.”

 

People also missed the fact that on the back of the album Yoko included a sign of hope. She’s sitting beside the same table by this same window, and in the same spot where John’s glasses were now sits a potted geranium, happily reaching towards the trees and blue Manhattan sky. Next to that germanium is a glass of water. And the glass is full.

 

From the beginning of her career, Yoko Ono’s message has been a positive one. Though dark and negative motivations have consistently been attributed to her, any analysis of her songs reveals a dedicated optimist at work more than anything. A quick survey of titles makes this clear; “Give Peace A Chance” (written with John, of course), “It’s Alright,” “I See Rainbows,” “Hard Times Are Over,” “Goodbye Sadness,” and so on. When John first met Yoko at her art exhibit at London’s Indica Gallery on that legendary day in 1966, it was the fact that her message was positive, that there was a magnified “Yes” at the top of the ladder he climbed, that bought them together. And when I asked her about her hardships as a child during the war, she remembered the light in the darkness, “I fell in love with the sky during that period,” she said, “The sky was just beautiful in the countryside. The most beautiful thing about it.”

 

Through the eighties after John was gone, again and again her mission has been to give hope, and the exuberance of her music was reflected in this affirmation. It’s Alright, which followed Seasons of Glass, is one of the most hopeful and inspiring albums ever made.

 

Despite all of it, though, Yoko Ono has been subject to some of the most extreme and bitter criticism any songwriter has ever had to endure. For years, hordes have held on to the notorious notion that she “broke up the Beatles,” still refusing to give John Lennon credit for making his own choices. That John’s life, both personal and professional, was entirely transformed when he fell in love with this woman, was never Yoko’s fault. If anything, she deserves praise for her profound influence on his art. He felt reborn when he and Yoko came together, and his enthusiasm for artistic expression was renewed. “I was awake again,” he said. “[Yoko] inspired all this creation in me. It wasn’t that she inspired the songs. She inspired me.”

 

When the criticism came, though it wasn’t ever easy to abide, it was anything new for Yoko Ono. When she was a kid growing up in Japan, her writing was roundly rejected by schoolteachers who objected to the fact that it didn’t fit into existing forms and that she had no desire to make it fit. “It’s not that I consciously tried not to conform,” she explained, smiling, “I was just naturally out of the system.” Since that time she’s bravely made her art regardless of whether it was embraced or rejected by the critics of the world. “It cost me my dignity sometimes,” she recalled. “But who needs dignity?”

   

When did you first start writing songs?

I was sort of a closet writer [laughs]. I was writing in the style of atonal songs but with poetry on top of it. I liked to write poetry and I liked to make it into music, into songs. It was something I liked very much to do anyway.

 

And then in London I think I was writing a couple of songs before getting together with John. The songs were in quite an interesting style, really. I don’t know how to put it. Maybe there’s some tape that’s left.

 

It was some interesting stuff I was doing. It was mostly acapella, because I didn’t have any musicians with me in London. And doing a kind of mixture of Oriental rhythm & blues, I suppose [laughs].

 

I think “Remember Love” was the first so-called pop song that I wrote but before that, before I met John, I wrote a few songs and one of them was “Listen, The Snow is Falling.” I made that into a pop song later. “Remember Love” was probably the first one I wrote as a pop song from the beginning.

 

Do you generally have the same approach to writing songs?

I can’t stand being in a rut, so I sort of always jump around. That’s me.

[Laughs]

 

Do you write on piano?

Yes. I use the piano because I don’t know any other instrument, really. I tried the guitar once and it hurt my fingers so much and I didn’t like it. John said, “Try it” so I tried it in L.A., when we stayed in L.A. But I didn’t like it at all. So, I just naturally go to the piano.

 

If I’m not at the piano, I can write riding in the car. And I just write down the notes and bring it in to the piano later.

 

Do you find your songs come in a flash, or do they come from the result of a lot of work?

No, it’s always a flash. And if I don’t catch it [laughs] and write it down, or put in a tape [softly], it just goes. Never comes back. Isn’t that funny?

 

Can you control when that flash comes? Do you ever sit down to write a song?

No, I never did that. But I mean, the point is that sometimes words do come back. The words are a different thing. Sometimes I will forget to write the music down and I’ll have only the words. And then I’ll put it to music at the piano, and it becomes a totally different song, you know.

 

When you first me John, did you have much enthusiasm for rock music?

Well, I started to have an incredible enthusiasm. In the beginning when I was sitting in the Beatles’ sessions, I thought that it was so simplistic. Like a kind of classical musician, avant-garde snobbery. And then I suddenly thought, “This is great!” I just woke up. And then I really felt good about it.

 

There’s an incredible energy there. Like primitivism. And no wonder. It’s a very healthy thing an no wonder it’s like a heartbeat. It’s almost like the other music appealed to a head plane, like brain music, and then they forgot about the body.

 

[Softly] It’s a very difficult to go back to your body. You know that bit about without the body we don’t exist. You forget that! It’s almost like we can just live in our heads. And a lot of intellectual, academic people, they tend to be that.

 

So I thought, “This is great!” It’s a total music.

 

Then I realized what was wrong with the other music. It was removed from the body. It lost that kind of energy. And I thought, “No wonder I was just sort of wondering around. Okay, well, this is great.” I went back to my body. It’s true.

 

It seemed that you had a big effect on their music by being there. Even McCartney said that he felt that he had to be more avant-garde when you were around.

I don’t know. It might have affected them that way on a peripheral level, the fact that I was there. But I was just living my own world inside. Dream world. [Laughs] I was sitting there just thinking about all the stuff I’m doing in my head. So I was there and in a way I wasn’t there.

 

Some of your die-hard fans felt that being with John Lennon was detrimental to your art, while other have said that your work blossomed in a new way.

 

Probably it would have been easier for me, career-wise, if I didn’t get together with him. In a way, I lost respectability or dignity as an artist. But then, what is dignity and what is respectability? It’s a kind of thing that was a good lesson for me to lose it. What am I supposed to be doing, carrying respectability and dignity like a Grand Dame of the avant-garde for twenty years? That would have been… boring. [Laughs]

 

That was a kind of option that was open to me, you know, and [softly] I didn’t take it. It was quite more fun to go forward into a new world.

 

John’s famous song “Imagine” originated from an idea in one of your poems from Grapefruit about imagining a different world. Do you feel people ever understood the source?

No. A song like that, it’s a political statement in a way, and it’s about changing people’s heads. And I think that people don’t have to understand anything except the message of the song, and hopefully that will get to them.

 

With John, people have named his songs to get his response, but no one has done that with you. May I?

Oh, sure. Do you mind if I just get my cigarettes? I still can’t shake it, you know?

 

“Dogtown.”

I was in an apartment on Bank Street with John. It was early in the morning and John was still asleep in the other room. I was at the window and the window was in such a way that the front room was very dark. The room was a few steps down from the pavement so from the window you would kind of look at people walking. It was like that feeling. Early morning. It was just that. I lit my cigarette and listened to the early morning sounds. The song was almost like a diary, describing what I was doing.

 

I didn’t want to wake up John. I had an electric piano that you can tone down very very quiet, and you’re the only one who can hear it, you know? That’s how I made “Dogtown.” [Laughs]

 

So it started as a quiet song.

Well I wasn’t thinking quiet, I was just making sure that he couldn’t hear.

 

“Death of Samantha.”

Oh, yeah. I know that one. There was a certain instant and I felt like I was really sad, so that’s when it happened. Something terribly upsetting happened to me and then the next time we were at the studio, while the engineers were sort of putting the board in order, it flashed to me. So I just wrote it down.

 

This is funny because with “Death of Samantha,” while I was writing I sort of saw this graveyard. It’s not a graveyard, because when you think of a graveyard, you think of many, many gravestones. It’s just a kind of grey kind of day, grey scene, and grey people standing around like somebody has died. And after John’s death people said, “You were writing about his vigil, did you know that?” And I read the lyrics that they sent me from “Death of Samantha” and I just reread it and realized, oh, that’s true. Of course, I didn’t realize it then. So it’s very strange. You know, images come to me.

 

Many of your songs told future things.

It’s scary in a way.

 

Why do you think that is?

I don’t know what it is. So I’m very careful about what I say or what I think or do. Cause it could mean something later.

 

“Yang Yang.”

Oh, “Yang Yang” was based on a chord change. I like to use, kind of an ascending harmonic change. I showed it to John that instead of ascending by half-notes, you can ascend by whole notes, and that gives a kind of vital power that is interesting. And “Yang Yang” is the first thing that came to me with those chords.

 

That song is in E minor and a lot of songs from this period are also in that key. Do keys have different significances for you?

Yeah. Each chord has a difference significance astrologically. I use F# a lot, and E minor too. And I’m thinking why, and it seems like it’s agreeable to my astrology.

 

I was also thinking why I sometimes use the key of C [major] because C is so simplistic, most composers probably avoid it. But I don’t avoid it. Why not? Why do I do that? C s a key of communication, I understand. So I used it in a song I had to communicate. The kind of songs that I wrote in the key of C or rewrote in the key of C, like “Give Peace a Chance” or that sort of thing, it’s all to do with communication, of course. The widest communication you want, so you go back to the simplest key, which is C.

 

That’s interesting. I’ve noticed that TV commercials are often in C, probably for the same reason.

Oh, yeah. It’s fascinating. And I think that most writers instinctively go for something simple to communicate.

 

Your song “Silver Horse” is in C major.

Yeah. [Laughs] You know what it was? “Silver Horse” is like a fairy-tale. It’s like a story that you tell your child. It just happened, you know. It’s that kind of nursery rhyme feeling I was trying to give.

 

I love the spoken part on that song when you say, “I came to realize the horse had no wings,” and then you ask yourself, “No wings?”

[Laughter] Oh, by the way, John loved that song. Yeah. He kept saying, “Oh, that’s a great song” because he liked the fact that I say, “It wasn’t so bad, you know.” [Laughs]

 

I know John also loved your song, “Nobody Sees Me Like You Do,” which has a wonderful chord progression.

Yeah, he liked the chord sequence. It’s a chord sequence that is probably pretty prevalent in country music but you don’t use that much in rock.

 

That’s one of your happiest songs, and yet you bring in the sadness in the line, “The feeling of loneliness hangs over like a curse…”

We’re all complex people, you know. You can’t just sort of be happy all the time, you know, like zombies. [Laughs]

 

Another one of your happiest songs, which was also on the It’s Alright album, is “My Man.”

You like that?

 

Very Much.

I wanted to make a real pop one, you know? A lot of people think that wasn’t artistic, like it’s sort of silly or something. Which is true: “Bab-a-lou, bab-a-lou.” I liked that. [Laughs] Dumb but nice, you know?

 

On “Woman of Salem,” you used the year 1692 without knowing that was the actual year of the witch trials?

Isn’t it amazing that I didn’t know that year? After I finished Salem, you know, I just thought of it. It’s incredible. It’s uncanny, isn’t it?

 

Yes. Any explanation?

No. [Laughs] I went to see her house and I was nearly crying. I mean, you talk about witches and it’s not a witch at all. It’s a sensible doctor’s house, you know? Very intellectual, artistic kind of person living there, you just know it.

 

It makes me think of your song, “Yes, I’m A Witch” in which you say “I don’t care what you say, my voice is real and speaking truth.”

Yeah, I know. That’s me.

 

“A Story.”

Okay., “Story.” That, again, is like a nursery rhyme. It’s a simple story, you know? I think it was in C, wasn’t it?

 

One of the songs I’ve been especially loving on Onobox is “Yume O Moto” which you sing in Japanese.

That’s nice, isn’t it?

 

Very. What does it mean?

Let’s have a dream. Yume o moto.

 

Do you find that it’s more natural or pleasing to sing in Japanese than in English?

I don’t think so. I don’t feel that way.

 

The author Vladimir Nabokov said that English is like a blank canvas, that it doesn’t have an inherent beauty the way other languages do. Do you find that?

I don’t find that. I think English is a very beautiful language. All languages are beautiful, really.

 

Do you think in English?

Sometimes I think in Japanese, sometimes I think in English. But mainly in English at this point, you know. I mean, when I’m talking in English, of course I think in English.

 

Do you dream in English?

Yeah!

 

“Yume O Moto” was from an album called A Story which you recorded in 1973 during your separation from John, what you both called your “lost weekend.” You decided not to release it at the time, and have included it here as the final disk of the Onobox. There are so many great songs on it, hearing it now it’s surprising that you didn’t want to put it out.

Well, you know, there are many things that I just chucked, you know, or shelved, you know. Like from my early days, like the stories that I wrote, that it was just in the course of going from one country to another or one relationship to another. Something I lost or whatever. It was one of those things. I didn’t think that much about it.

 

John recorded Walls and Bridges during that time and he released it.

I know, John can do it, I can’t right? There’s a difference.

 

Many of your best songs, such as “Loneliness” and “Dogtown” came from that album. Had you released it, do you think people might have recognized you as a songwriter earlier in your career?

Well, I couldn’t put it out then, anyway. Let’s put it that way.

 

Why not?

Well, I don’t know, it’s just… Look. Listen to Feeling the Space. That’s a pretty good album. There’s some good songs in there too, you know that, right? So? That was out there but nobody cared. It’s the same thing. Now you say that people might have known I was a songwriter. At the time, putting out Feel the Space, people should have know, or putting out Approximately Infinite Universe, people should have known that I’m a songwriter, and they didn’t, so what are we talking about? You know, one more album is not going to help, you know?

 

In a way, it’s good that came out now. You get it? Then if people hear it, without kind of the Yoko-bashing… I didn’t think so. I thought it was going to be bashed again. But obviously they’re taking it differently now. I don’t know why. Let’s put it that way. I’m very lucky because I could have died without hearing about it.

 

I think there’s a small group of hardcore fans who had to literally go through the same bashing that I went through just because they like my music. So I’m doing it for them, too, this box. I felt I really had to make sure that every note was right. For them.

 

I’ve been surprised by some of the resistance to your work, especially when Season of Glass came out, because it was such a meaningful album.

I wasn’t too aware of what was going on then, but it seems that it’s easy to concentrate on the kind of things that I was doing, it was easier to concentrate on that than to go into the outside world.

 

“It’s Alright.”

Oh, that was so difficult. It was a very difficult one to make, really. But I loved it. That was after John’s death and everything and I was really trying to get into music. So it was like getting into harmony, and putting in all the harmonies. There were many things that I wanted to get in, so I intentionally made it so that there were holes in it. And I filled those in with different kinds of little choruses. It was like a collage, and it was a big production. A big production with not many people, not many musicians. In other words, all those sort of overdub things that I did.

 

“Mindweaver.”

Oh, “Mindweaver,” oh… [Pause] I wanted to make it like a duet with the guitar and my voice. And I was thinking of basically making it like a Spanish mourning song. It has that kind of dignity.

 

“It Happened.”

Oh, “It Happened” was actually composed in 1973 and at the time it had to do with moving away from each other. But then, when John died, I thought, “Oh, that’s what it was about” [laughs] and I put it on the back of “Walking on Thin Ice.”

 

I look at that period of separation like a rehearsal.

 

A rehearsal for what?

For the big separation that I didn’t know would happen. It was very good that I had that rehearsal in terms of moving along. That helped me later.

 

“Cape Clear.”

“Cape Clear” was first called “Teddy Bear.” [Laughs] I was writing at the piano. I was writing at this piano in The Dakota and in Cold Spring Harbour. In those days I still had Cold Spring Harbour. And it was just one of those songs. Central Park gave me that inspiration, you get it? Like the girls are sitting in the park and the clouds passing by, you know? I was looking over Central Park and I was thinking, “Oh. I could be sitting there.” It sort of flashed in my mind.

 

How about “Walking on Thin Ice”?

Oh. [Laughs] “Walking on Thin Ice.” What about it?

 

It’s such a powerful songs, both musically and lyrically. Do you recall where it came from, or how you wrote it?

I was thinking of Lake Michigan. I went to Chicago. And Lake Michigan is so big that you don’t know the end of it when you look at it. I was visualizing Lake Michigan. I was just thinking of this woman that is walking Lake Michigan when it is totally frozen, and is walking and walking but not knowing that it’s that huge. [A siren sound starts from outside, getting louder.] I’m like one of those people. “Oh it’s ice but I can walk on it.” I walk like that in life.

 

That song is about yourself?

Yes. I think so. The spoken part, “I knew a girl…” and all that, that feeling came to me after we recorded it. But I wasn’t sure about it. I just knew it had something to do with a girl who is walking. Then I sang the song, and I was still sitting in the chair by the mike, waiting for them to change the tape. That’s when it just came. So I just wrote it down quickly. I said, “I got it!” And I told them I was just going to do something after the singing, and I just did it.

 

Where do you think those kinds of thoughts come from?

No idea. It’s very interesting because it could be something that came totally from somewhere else. But, of course, it’s about me, and that’s how I was looking at it. But then, I don’t know. I didn’t think it was about me, really. I was just looking at this girl who is walking, you know.

 

It seems like a visual message. You see, in my mind, sound and visual is all very closely connected. It’s mixed almost. So when I hear sound, I almost hear it in colour as well.

 

When you listen to something like “What a Bastard the World Is,” or something, you probably see something, some filmic image.

 

Many of your songs are very visual.

Yes. Because that’s how I see it and I hear it. Seeing and hearing is very closely connected.

 

When I said, “I knew a girrrl…,’ that I thought was to accentuate certain syllables that it’s odd to accentuate. And that was like Alban Berg. Let’s do like Alban Berg.

 

That’s some of John’s most passionate guitar playing.

Oh, incredible. He did great guitar playing on “Woman Power” and “She Hits Back.” Very good. But also, not talking about those normal ones, what did you think about “Why”? He’s so good, isn’t he?

 

Yes. On something like that or on “Walking On Thin Ice” did you give him the kind of sound or direction that you heard in your head?

Kind of, yeah. I mean, we’d talk about it. Like I would say, “I’m going to go like this, you go like this.” I don’t mean “go like this” in terms of notes, but just the mood of it.

 

It depends. On “Cambridge” he wanted to know how to do it, so I kind of explained it to him before we went to Cambridge. With “Why” I was talking about the kind of dialogue we could do in terms of my voice and his guitar. But it’s not like telling him what note to play.

 

Speaking of a dialogue, you also wrote songs in dialogue on Double Fantasy.

Yes. We sort of vaguely had this idea about doing a dialogue album. But some of the songs, like “I’m Moving On,” were written before. In putting together an album, I’d bring out a song and say, “What about this then?” When you do ‘I’m Losing You’ I’ll do this.” That part of the dialogue was a conscious sequence.

 

“Sisters O Sisters.”

“Sisters O Sisters” was written for a rally in Michigan for John Sinclair in 1971. When we were in Ann Arbor, Michigan at the concert, John said, “She’s got something, Yoko’s got something,” I said, “This is for the sisters of Ann Arbour, Michigan.” And we sung it, and that was the premiere. [Laughs] And afterwards I didn’t think much of it until we were making Sometime in New York City, which probably was in ’72. At the time we did that, we did it in the recording studio for the first time with Phil Spector. And the way I’m singing in Ann Arbour, Michigan is very different from the way I sung in the Phil Spector version. And I think Phil Spector version is a good one.

 

Seasons of Glass was such a powerful record, and so meaningful at that time for so many people.

When I made Season of Glass, I felt like I was still like walking underwater or something, so I didn’t really know people’s reaction.

 

In that poem you wrote, “There is a season that never passes, and that is the season of glass.” Which echoed the way so many felt after John’s death, that this is a time that won’t pass. Do you feel that we’re still in the season of glass?

I don’t know, because I may have been talking about something more than John’s death in a way. At the time, of course, I was talking about my private experience. But I’m doing a piece right now for a gallery show which is about a family that is sitting in the park at meltdown time, and I was thinking in terms of the meltdown of the human race and the endangered species. And somebody said that it looked like genocide as well.

 

So it’s like the season of glass is still here in terms of the whole world. We’re still not reaching a point of not having… bloody glasses.

 

A very positive message you put out that I think people have missed is that on Season of Glass, on the back cover, the glass of waster that was half-full on the front is now full.

Yeah, Oh, you mean you noticed it? Very few people noticed that.

  

Do you think your positive messages often were overlooked?

Well, some people got them and some didn’t. It depends on the person, too. I mean, you noticed something, you know? [Laughs] But most people didn’t notice it.

 

So many of your songs are positive. Does an artist have an obligation to have a positive message?

No. Some artists are writing depressive songs and killing themselves, you know? [Laughs] It depends on the artist. There are some depressive moments in my work, but, yeah, generally I try to fight back.

 

John was attracted to the word “Yes” in your art show when you first met.

Yeah. Well, we just have to, you know? It’s not like I don’t know that the world has various negative aspects. But writing about that is not going to help anybody.

 

Would it be okay if I asked you your response to some of John’s songs?

Sure.

 

“Strawberry Fields.”

I love it. You know what it is? That was the first John Lennon song that I encountered. And there was a party at the editor of the Art Magazine’s house in London. And I went to that, and I think I was a bit earlier than the others and I was in the house and the editor said, “Oh, listen to this, Yoko. When a pop song comes to this point, what do you think?”

 

And he played “Strawberry Fields,” in London. And I thought, “Hmmmmm…” Because there were some dissonant sounds and I thought it was pretty good. For a pop song. [Laugh]

 

It thought it was cute. I thought it was some cute stuff. Because I was making songs with all dissonant sounds. It impressed me. I was surprised a pop song could be that way.

 

I like the song. Musically, it was very terrific. And there’s a lot of connections about it. I mean, I think of John as an artist, a songwriter, a fellow artist. But also, he was my husband, you know. And I remember all his pain as a child, sort of looking at Strawberry Fields, which was an orphanage, you know. He always told me about his Aunt Mimi saying, whenever he was out of hand, Mimi would say, “You can go there. You’re lucky you’re not there, John.” So, Strawberry Fields to him was connected with this strange kind of fear and love, love for the kind of children that were very close to his condition. John was in a better position. So there’s that love and that strange fear for it.

 

It’s very strong thing for him. That sort of painful memory that he had of Strawberry Fields, he transferred that into a song. And made it positive. And that song was transferred into a park. [Laughs] It’s a very strong thing that I witnessed. So it means a lot to me.

 

“Come Together.”

Oh. Oh, that’s a beautiful song. Well, that’s very John. That’s a very John song. And a lot of people came together to his music. It’s like a symbol of that, you know?

 

“Starting Over.”

Well… that’s a nice song, isn’t it? [Laughs]

 

Yeah. It’s very happy.

Like me and him, right? [Laughs]

 

“Across the Universe.”

Oh, “Across the Universe.” That’s beautiful poetry. And also, “Across the Universe,” the kind of melody and rhythm and all that, reminds me of the beginning of the so-called New Music.

 

“Bless You.”

Oh, “Bless You,” of course. I have a special emotional thing about it, don’t I? I remember when he first came and played it to me.

 

“Julia.”

Well, that’s very beautiful. I was there when he wrote it. I think it’s such a strong melody.

 

He wrote so many beautiful melodies, yet McCartney has the reputation for being the melody writer.

No, no, no, no. It’s not true at all. John was a great melody writer.

 

Is it true that “Because” was based on “The Moonlight Sonata” which he asked you to play backwards?

When you really listen to it, you see that he did play the chords backwards at one point but I think eventually it cleaned up a bit into a pop format. So he didn’t use all the chords. But that was the initial inspiration.

 

There were many songs he wrote with your name in it, such as “Dear Yoko,” “Oh Yoko,” “The Ballad of John & Yoko” in which you became almost a folk hero…

Well, I don’t know about that. I think that from where I come from, in the art world, Picasso’s always painting the wife, or Modigliani only had one model, who was his wife, so that kind of thing is normal. So it didn’t strike me as anything unusual.

 

Did you and John ever discuss songwriting?

For me, it’s so natural to use so many different chords. Because in classical music, you just do this. The kind of thing he would show me was that instead of using so many different chords, just use two chords. It’s funkier. That’s a great trick. That’s the kind of thing that classical musicians or composers lost, of course.

 

Do you have a favourite song that John wrote?

“In My Life” is a pretty good one, isn’t it?

 

McCartney’s son “Get Back” seemed to be directed at you.

We thought that.

 

Did you have any inner response to that?

No. I don’t know. That’s another thing that is the strength of an artist, probably. Artists always think, “Oh, maybe they’re trying to hurt me,” or whatever. You think that but in the next minute you’re thinking about your own songs, your own art or sculpture or films or whatever. So by doing that, you shake it off. So it doesn’t stick so much.

 

You’ve had a lot of tragedy in your life. Do you feel that tragedy helps an artist to open up in any way?

I think that tragedy comes in all forms. No one should encourage artists to pursue tragedy so that they might become a good artist. I wouldn’t encourage that. You don’t have to have tragedy to create, really.

 

Was there ever a feeling on your part that you would want to leave the Dakota, and live elsewhere?

Not really. It was the spot that my husband died, you know? It was… like you don’t want to leave there, you know?

 

These days this place represents teenagers, Sean and Sean’s friends. It’s quite a different scene, and it’s very nice.

 

Early in your career you worked with John Cage and you called “imaginary music” and music that can’t be notated. Later you said you felt that the pop song was more powerful because it could reach more people. What do you think now?

I still feel that there’s kind of an extra-sensory perception kind of area where you can pursue that sort of communication and sound vibration on that level, et cetera. But, yes, I really think the pop song, or rock, is a very good means of communication.

 

Do you think the songform is restrictive?

Yes.

 

You once said that you felt songs were like haikus.

Yes, definitely. But also it’s either way. Even when it’s twenty minutes or an hour, in the context of the big world, it’s very small [laughs], you know what I mean? It’s all very relative, you know.

 

Was it difficult for you to continually create in the face of people’s negative energy? Even when you were a little girl, your teachers were harsh with your writing, yet you always had the bravery to do your art regardless.

In a sense because of that I lost many writings. Because they would discourage me so I would keep on writing, but I wouldn’t hold onto them. And the same with the tapes. A lot of tapes I did, like “London Jam” kind of things with John, it’s a pity that they’re lost. And the reason why they were lost was because there was so much antagonism about it.

 

I would insist on going on and doing something, but I wouldn’t keep them. It’s not like I would intentionally destroy them. But it’s like easy to let it slip out of your hands. That’s how it’s manifest.

 

In looking back at all this work, do you have a favourite song?

That’s a difficult question, isn’t it? I wouldn’t know. The other day I was listening and I thought, “What Did I Do” was one I liked very much. But that’s just in passing. I did like, “No, No, No” a lot but now I don’t feel like listening to it. It’s like different times, you know, something fixes in your head. Of course, I did like “Walking on Thin Ice” but [laughs] how long can you like “Walking on Thin Ice”? I got over it.

 

The number nine has been significant in your life, and we’re in the nineties. Are you optimistic about these times, and times to come?

Yeah, I think that we’re going back to a good age. The 1980s were hard because it was a material age and people were just into materialism, I think. But I always liked it that I didn’t go into that expansion thing. I think that this decade people are going to start to sober up a bit, and start to really understand or appreciate the value of real things. So you can’t just con them with a bit of commercial music. People are going to be more interested in real music. Genuine emotion.

 

Do you think songwriters can still write real songs?

We have to strive to be real, that’s all. Being real is not something that just happens to you. You have to sort of keep at it.

 

In “Dogtown” you write about “the true song I never finished writing all my life.” Do you feel that you have finished yet or are you still working on it?

I’m still working [laughs]

 

Do you feel that songs are timeless, and that they can last?

Oh, sure. I think that if you’re really communicating on a basic level, you’re going to be communicating all the time. Once it’s there. Once a song becomes a song, it has its own fate.

 

Free download under CC Attribution (CC BY 2.0). Please credit the artist and rawpixel.com

 

Hu Zhengyan (c. 1584-1674) was a Chinese traditional painter, calligrapher, seal carver and publisher during the transition of the Ming and Qing dynasties. He produced China’s first printed publication in color, and was famous for his incredible techniques achieving gradation and modulation of shades in woodblock prints.

 

Higher resolutions with no attribution required can be downloaded: rawpixel

 

The bottom drawer contains the forgotten artifacts of the past. Infrequent searches through the contents can become prolonged walk though distant memories.

 

Created for IP268 with elements:

1. a list (radio modulations and coding)

2. something with a strap, or straps (my childhood watch)

3. artificial light (old mag-lite torch)

 

These contents were actually found in the bottom drawer.

A Place to Bury Strangers graces us with their presence once again. I'm still surprised this avant garde experimental band comes to St. Louis. The crowd, though not large, understands and appreciates this unique band. You have to see them to understand their artistry and power.

The subtitle of this series is the "madness of photographing in stobe lights". I asked Oliver Ackermann before they played if they were going to have strobes likes the first time I saw them. I just wanted to be ready for them. He laughed and, "Maybe." Oh yes there were strobes and they were even more intense than last time. It was a smaller more independent venue this time and maybe that made it easier to put on the show they REALLY wanted to. Though 60% of my shots were black, I managed to get a few.

 

#amy buxton

#Fall

#St. Louis

#A Place to Bury Strangers

#band

#music

#noise manipulation

#Off Broadway

#wave modulation

#Death By Audio

#Dion Lunadon

#Oliver Ackermann

#experimental rock

#space rock

#strobe light

#strobe

#concert

 

This moving lens test features a long water-trough that sides the start of the main street in the village of Gistain in the Haut-Aragon of Spain. The trough is fed by a natural open tap from a network of deep mountain limestone fissures. I was filming the cold water as it released back into the sun, when the clang of sheep bells turned from a background soundtrack to a chance encounter. The long water-trough took stage for a mixed herd of goats and sheep, stopping in the village for their 'pause for thought', a metaphorical 'cup of coffee' before they continued to the valley... The shepherd asked us to be patient and pointed to alternative paths, but, as with the villagers and some small children, we had stopped and were both watching and listening to the herd's clickle-clackle. As they passed from one mountain meadow to another, they ate anything that was green, so weeds from back corners and geraniums (and some pots) all had to say a goodbye.

 

Your breath is sweet

Your eyes are like two jewels in the sky

Your back is straight, your hair is smooth

On the pillow where you lie

But I don't sense affection

No gratitude or love

Your loyalty is not to me

But to the stars above

 

Although the lyrics of this song describe an asymmetry of affection in an affair, they may also align to a relation with an elemental 'mother earth'. The woman of the song perhaps has the qualities of a realistic mother earth. Mother earth guarding the spirit of life (the moving animate) over death (inanimate), with the liaison between mineral and life-force perhaps occurring in apt landscape features, for example natural 'venus hills' in the configuration of a resting lady.

 

The vast majority of plants and animals from the earth's 'life force' seem to know or subscribe to a narrative of their own... and 'to the stars above'. And as a shepherd looks out over the seasons and the night stars, the blooms of flowers and the insects and birds, he understands that they are alive with him, but not necessarily loyal to him.

 

As the lyrics unfold, the narrative follows a vignette of a wandering lifestyle, a father and generations of ways of being. Dylan sings with his face dusted white (www.youtube.com/watch?v=ujgqOgMIwfA) - a gesture recognisable in many native cultures. He wears hand-made and elements of nature that go beyond the freak fantasies of earlier hippy subsets and into a perceived 1970's authenticity of the gypsy and the pastoral. With this performance, Dylan's voice has the oscillation of Iberian moor (audable here with the example of Manolo Caracol www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyZMEzU4OxY) and general comparisons can be found with Hendrix's desire for authenticity with his 'Band of Gypsy's' from five years prior and Stevi Nick's work with Fleetwood Mac from around the same period - a 1970s belief in a deep spirituality and authenticity from rural areas and their deep traditions. For another take, Allen Ginsberg's exalted sleeve notes from the original LP talks of ancient blood singing...".

 

Whilst there are no direct references to pastoralism in the song "One more cup of coffee", Dylan has addressed 'mountain sheep' in the track "Ring them bells". My own feeling is that both the footage and the song from the LP 'Desire' grow wider from being set side-by-side.

 

The Live 'Rolling Thunder review' years are documented in this box set: ASIN: B01JT73FYM. The LP version of the same song appeared a year later in 1976, and whilst the violin sound is perhaps improved, I favour this earlier live performance due to the astonishing artful modulations in Dylan's vocal delivery. His sense of the visual seems to open up the very words he sings, presenting their component phonemes as elemental 'objects' to watch and follow.

 

AJM 19.12.19

 

Press play and then 'L' and even f11. Escape and f11 a second time to return.

 

Nectar-bearing information is carried by members of the earth and water elementals, while vibrational-information is conveyed by the elementals of air. The thought energies transferred by the fire elementals, because of the energy’s upward and lightweight composition, are predominantly relayed by means of photosynthesis. All of these energy centers of communication are maintained by the universal astral light which nourishes the elementals who inhabit various parts of nature. The residue left by the scorched wings of the Angels of Light left a harmonic pitch which carries information between the elementals. This modulation is maintained in crystal transceivers within the earth, and relayed by the vibrations between earth’s magnetic poles. The elementals serve as the nerves of the planet using this crystalline harmonic communication to form a candid, botanical parrhesia in which to disseminate the expressions of Gaia.

 

denniscordell.zenfolio.com

 

www.elephantjournal.com/2020/12/some-notes-on-nature-spir...

 

Recently composed this. It's a bare bones version, and uses a chip tune soundfont. May change it up later.

 

For now, enjoy! ;3

www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZ7TjQsCGkE&feature=youtube_g...

How many notes does it have? Enough. :p

156 W. 44th Street, New York

Continuous Entertainment

Four Little White Pianos

 

Lumitone

CAPA-002959

 

Mailed from New York, New York to George L. Jones at Radio Store in Hazardville, Connecticut on October 22, 1945:

 

Monday Morning 10-22

Dear George: Last nite from my driveway, I worked Jim King - he said I had a very heavy carrier, but my modulation was so down he could barely read me, in fact, we had to sign. I heard him working KZU later. Do you think it's the mike or what?

Regards, Ernie

The science of photonics includes the generation, emission, transmission, modulation, signal processing, switching, amplification, and detection/sensing of light. The term photonics thereby emphasizes that photons are neither particles nor waves — they are different in that they have both particle and wave nature. It covers all technical applications of light over the whole spectrum from ultraviolet over the visible to the near-, mid- and far-infrared. Most applications, however, are in the range of the visible and near infrared light. The term photonics developed as an outgrowth of the first practical semiconductor light emitters invented in the early 1960s and optical fibers developed in the 1970s.

 

~~~~~

  

yes i am on tumblr

 

buy prints!

“Claremont Road” has five Arduino UNO microcontrollers which control train movements along with PWM (servo adapted) points/turnouts, and signals according to pre-written programs or “sketches”. This is a completely different concept from DCC.

 

The master co-ordinating UNO gets feedback from the track through 14 enbedded infra-red proximity detectors,

 

Slaves 1-3 are UNO “train drivers”,

 

Slave 4 handles the display and lights. The orange display shows the current mode and commands being passed between the UNOs via a short-wire protocol known as I2C.

Location: Olaiya Street, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.

 

About: Geometrical shapes is one of the important features in the Modern Architecture... For More info. if you are interested about Modernism Movement Wikipedia

 

Software: Lightroom

 

Explore:#74 on Monday, October 26, 2009

I took this picture for #flickrfriday with the theme #repetition

 

This LP is "BAD" from Michael Jackson released in 1987. I love this album, every single track!

To take the picture I used my 100mm macro lens and a speedlite 430ex ii. The whole vinyl macro session was about four hours.

JIM DRAIN AND ARA PETERSON

B: 1975, 1973

LW: Miami, FL; Providence, RI

Jim and Ara met at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) at the end of the 20th century and did their first collaboration as part of Forcefield with Mat Brinkman and Leif Goldberg.

Years later, the two joined forces again to create a universe of conceptual abstraction titled Hypnogoogia. Twelve-foot geodesic sphere paintings rotated on the floor and from the ceiling; a huge handmade kaleidoscope created the illusion of an additional sphere, this one exploding with reflected video modulations; a twelve-foot rotating divan paved the way to their basement full of quietly spinning pinwheels, featured here.

These pinwheels capture one very important component of Jim and Ara’s work: that they are of very simple construction—foam core, paint, and electric fan—but as artworks achieve maximum visceral effect. KG

  

Jim e Ara si sono conosciuti alla Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) alla fine del XX secolo e hanno collaborato per la prima volta nel collettivo Forcefield insieme a Mat Brinkman e Leif Goldberg. Anni dopo, i due hanno nuovamente unito le loro forze per creare un universo di astrazione concettuale chiamato Hypnogoogia. Sono qui presentati dipinti sferici geodetici di tre metri e mezzo, ruotati sul pavimento e appesi al soffitto; un enorme caleidoscopio fatto a mano che crea l’illusione di un’ulteriore sfera che esplode in modulazioni video riflesse; un divano rotante di tre metri e mezzo che spiana la strada alla base, piena di girandole roteanti.

Queste girandole descrivono una componente molto importante del lavoro di Jim e Ara: cioè il fatto che si tratta di semplicissime costruzioni – polistirolo, pittura e ventilatori – le quali però, come opere d’arte, raggiungono il massimo effetto viscerale. KG

   

Sample image taken with a Fujinon XF 56mm f1.2 R mounted on a Fujifilm XT1 body; each of these images is an out-of-camera JPEG with Lens Modulation Optimisation enabled. These samples and comparisons are part of my Fujinon XF 56mm f1.2 R review at:

 

cameralabs.com/reviews/Fujifilm_Fujinon_XF_56mm_f1-2_R/

 

Feel free to download the original image for evaluation on your own computer or printer, but please don't use it on another website or publication without permission from www.cameralabs.com/

FROM WIKIPEDIA: The Palatine Chapel (Italian: Cappella Palatina[1]) is the royal chapel of the Norman kings of Sicily situated on the second floor at the center of the Palazzo Reale in Palermo, southern Italy. The chapel was commissioned by Roger II of Sicily in 1132 to be built upon an older chapel (now the crypt) constructed around 1080. It took eight years to build and many more to decorate with mosaics and fine art. The sanctuary, dedicated to Saint Peter, is reminiscent of a domed basilica. It has three apses, as is usual in Byzantine architecture, with six pointed arches (three on each side of the central nave) resting on recycled classical columns. The mosaics of the Palatine Chapel are of unparalleled elegance as concerns elongated proportions and streaming draperies of figures. They are also noted for subtle modulations of colour and luminance. The oldest are probably those covering the ceiling, the drum, and the dome. The shimmering mosaics of the transept, presumably dating from the 1140s and attributed to Byzantine artists, illustrate scenes from the Acts of the Apostles. Every composition is set within an ornamental frame, not dissimilar to that used in contemporaneous mosaic icons. The rest of the mosaics, dated to the 1160s or the 1170s, are executed in a cruder manner and feature Latin (rather than Greek) inscriptions. Probably a work of local craftsmen, these pieces are more narrative and illustrative than transcendental. A few mosaics have a secular character and represent oriental flora and fauna. This may be the only substantial passage of secular Byzantine mosaic extant today. The chapel combines harmoniously a variety of styles: the Norman architecture and door decor, the Arabic arches and scripts adorning the roof, the Byzantine dome and mosaics. For instance, clusters of four eight-pointed stars, typical for Muslim design, are arranged on the ceiling so as to form a Christian cross. Other remarkable features of the chapel include the Carolingian throne, a low stage for royal receptions, and a balcony which allowed the king to view religious processions from above. In addition, the muqarnas ceiling is spectacular. The hundreds of facets were painted, notably with many purely ornamental vegetal and zoomorphic designs but also with scenes of daily life and many subjects that have not yet been explained. Stylistically influenced by Iraqi 'Abbasid art, these paintings are innovative in their more spatially aware representation of personages and of animals.

Time SignaturesThe method behind the Music and notes fly to an ideal world...Notes Written on the Staff...Ledger Lines...Note Durations...Time Signatures and no-Photoshop in this picture just F22.(Bold denotes a stressed beat):

one two three (as in a waltz

Example of an irrational 4

3 time signature: here there are four (4) third notes (3) per measure. A "third note" would be one third of a whole note, and thus is a half-note triplet. The second measure of 4

2 presents the same notes, so the 4

3 time signature serves to indicate the precise speed relationship between the notes in the two measures.

These are time signatures, used for so-called irrational bar lengths,[16] that have a denominator that is not a power of two (1, 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, etc.) (or, mathematically speaking, is not a dyadic rational). These are based on beats expressed in terms of fractions of full beats in the prevailing tempo—for example 3

10 or 5

24.[16] For example, where 4

4 implies a bar construction of four quarter-parts of a whole note (i.e., four quarter notes), 4

3 implies a bar construction of four third-parts of it. These signatures are only of utility when juxtaposed with other signatures with varying denominators; a piece written entirely in 4

3, say, could be more legibly written out in 4

4.

  

{

\time 4/2

c''2 d'' e'' f'' |

c''^\markup {

\note #"1." #1

=

\note #"1" #1

} d'' e'' f''

}

The same example written using metric modulation instead of irrational time signatures. Three half notes in the first measure (making up a dotted whole note) are equal in duration to two half notes in the second (making up a whole note).

 

{

\time 4/2

c''2 d'' e'' f'' |

\time 12/4

c''2. d'' e'' f''

}

The same example written using a change in time signature.

Metric modulation is "a somewhat distant analogy".[16] It is arguable whether the use of these signatures makes metric relationships clearer or more obscure to the musician; it is always possible to write a passage using non-irrational signatures by specifying a relationship between some note length in the previous bar and some other in the succeeding one. Sometimes, successive metric relationships between bars are so convoluted that the pure use of irrational signatures would quickly render the notation extremely hard to penetrate. Good examples, written entirely in conventional signatures with the aid of between-bar specified metric relationships, occur a number of times in John Adams' opera Nixon in China (1987), where the sole use of irrational signatures would quickly produce massive numerators and denominators.[citation needed]

Historically, this device has been prefigured wherever composers wrote tuplets. For example, a 2

4 bar of 3 triplet crotchets could arguably be written as a bar of 3

6. Henry Cowell's piano piece Fabric (1920) employs separate divisions of the bar (anything from 1 to 9) for the three contrapuntal parts, using a scheme of shaped note heads to visually clarify the differences, but the pioneering of these signatures is largely due to Brian Ferneyhough, who says that he "find[s] that such 'irrational' measures serve as a useful buffer between local changes of event density and actual changes of base tempo.[16] Thomas Adès has also used them extensively—for example in Traced Overhead (1996), the second movement of which contains, among more conventional meters, bars in such signatures as 2

6, 9

14 and 5

24.

A gradual process of diffusion into less rarefied musical circles seems underway.[citation needed] For example, John Pickard's Eden, commissioned for the 2005 finals of the National Brass Band Championships of Great Britain contains bars of 3

10 and 7

12.[17]

Notationally, rather than using Cowell's elaborate series of notehead shapes, the same convention has been invoked as when normal tuplets are written; for example, one beat in 4

5 is written as a normal quarter note, four quarter notes complete the bar, but the whole bar lasts only 4⁄5 of a reference whole note, and a beat 1⁄5 of one (or 4⁄5 of a normal quarter note). This is notated in exactly the same way that one would write if one were writing the first four quarter notes of five quintuplet quarter notes.

This article uses irrational in the music theory sense, not the mathematical sense, where an irrational number is one that cannot be written as a ratio of whole numbers. However, at least one composition—Conlon Nancarrow's Studies for Player Piano—uses a time signature that is irrational in the mathematical sense. The piece contains a canon with a part augmented in the ratio √42:1 (approximately 6.48:1).

Now that you have an idea of basic rhythmic values and notation used in music, you need to learn a little about time signatures.A time signature tells you how the music is to be counted. The time signature is written at the beginning of the staff after the clef and key signature. Time signatures consist of two numbers written like a fraction.The top number of the time signature tells you how many beats to count. This could be any number. Most often the number of beats will fall between 2 and 12.The bottom number tells you what kind of note to count. That is, whether to count the beats as quarter notes, eighth notes, or sixteenth notes. So the only numbers you will see as the bottom number (the denominator) will correspond to note values:

1 = whole note (you’ll never see this)

2 = half note

4 = quarter note

8 = eighth note

16 = sixteenth note

You could continue on with 32, 64, but you will hopefully never encounter them! After a while it gets a bit unwieldy. The most common bottom numbers are 4, 8 and 16.Let me give you some examples so you better understand the concept...

4/4 Time Signature Example:

A time signature of 4/4 means count 4 (top number) quarter notes (bottom number) to each bar. So the pulse, or beat, is counted 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, and so on.That means all the notes in each bar must add up to 4 quarter notes. Any combination of rhythms can be used as long as they add up to 4 quarter notes. For instance, a bar could contain 1 half note, 1 quarter note rest and 2 eighth notes. (See diagram.) Summed together they add to 4 quarter notes total. You can never have more than or less than the sum total of the number of beats in the time signature.

3/4 Time Signature Example:

A time signature of 3/4 means count 3 quarter notes to each bar. This is an often-used time signature giving you a waltz feel. 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3…

Again, the rhythms in each bar can be anything as long as they add to 3 quarter notes. This is where time signatures start to seem illogical and students often get confused. How can 3 quarter notes add up to a whole measure? You have to remember that all of our rhythmic terminology is based on 4/4 time since it is the most common. You’ll just have to accept the fact that music has some weird conventions just as any language. Think of all the illogical ways similarly spelled English words are pronounced.

6/8 Time Signature Example:

A time signature of 6/8 means count 6 eighth notes to each bar. This is also a very often-used time signature. You would count the beat: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and so on…

Now you will wonder why can’t you just reduce 6/8 to 3/4? After all, they add up to the same amount. One reason you might pick one time signature versus the other is how the music is organized. 6/8 is grouped into 2 groups of 3 eighth notes. 3/4 time would be grouped into 3 groups of 2 eighth notes. Depending on the structure of the bassline or song, it may make sense to group it one way instead of the other. So 6/8 feels more like two, while 3/4 feels more like three.

Time Signature Abbreviations

A few other time signatures you may see use special abbreviations instead of numbers. 4/4 is called common time since it is so common. 4/4 time is often marked with a C instead of 4/4. It means the same thing.

[Completely unimportant historical note: the C is not actually short for the word common. It is actually an incomplete circle from an older form of notation called mensural notation.]

Another common abbreviation is for cut time meaning 2/2 time. Cut time is usually written as a C with a slash through it.

Time Signature Summary

This was just a brief guide to what time signatures mean and their notation in written music. In later lessons I will explain meter and time signatures in much more detail.

The main thing to remember is a time signature tells you: How many of what kind.

That’s it. A time signature is the number of beats and the type of note the beat is.

www.studybass.com/lessons/reading-music/time-signatures/

The time signature (also known as meter signature,[1] metre signature,[2] or measure signature[3]) is a notational convention used in Western musical notation to specify how many beats (pulses) are to be contained in each bar and which note value is to be given one beat. In a musical score, the time signature appears at the beginning of the piece, as a time symbol or stacked numerals, such as Commontime inline.png or 3

4 (read common time and three-four time, respectively), immediately following the key signature or immediately following the clef symbol if the key signature is empty. A mid-score time signature, usually immediately following a barline, indicates a change of meter.

There are various types of time signatures, depending on whether the music follows simple rhythms or involves unusual shifting tempos, including: simple (such as 3

4 or 4

4), compound (e.g., 9

8 or 12

8), complex (e.g., 5

4 or 7

8), mixed (e.g., 5

8 & 3

8 or 6

8 & 3

4), additive (e.g., 3+2+3

8), fractional (e.g., 2½

4), and irrational meters (e.g., 3

10 or 5

24).

Simple time signatures[edit]

Basic time signatures: 4

4, also known as common time (Commontime inline.png); 2

2, alla breve, also known as cut time or cut-common time (cut time); plus 2

4; 3

4; and 6

8

Simple time signatures consist of two numerals, one stacked above the other:

The lower numeral indicates the note value that represents one beat (the beat unit).

The upper numeral indicates how many such beats there are grouped together in a bar.

For instance, 2

4 means two quarter-note (crotchet) beats per bar—3

8 means three eighth-note (quaver) beats per bar.

The most common simple time signatures are 2

4, 3

4, and 4

4.

Notational variations in simple time[edit]

The symbol Commontime inline.png is sometimes used for 4

4 time, also called common time or imperfect time. The symbol is derived from a broken circle used in music notation from the 14th through 16th centuries, where a full circle represented what today would be written in 3

2 or 3

4 time, and was called tempus perfectum (perfect time).[4] The symbol cut time is also a carry-over from the notational practice of late-Medieval and Renaissance music, where it signified tempus imperfectum diminutum (diminished imperfect time)—more precisely, a doubling of the speed, or proportio dupla, in duple meter.[5] In modern notation, it is used in place of 2

2 and is called alla breve or, colloquially, cut time or cut common time.

Compound time signatures[edit]

Main article: Compound meter (music)

In compound meter, subdivisions (which are what the upper number represents in these meters) of the main beat are in three equal parts, so that a dotted note (half again longer than a regular note) becomes the beat unit. Compound time signatures are named as if they were simple time signatures, in which the one-third part of the beat unit is the beat, so the top number is commonly 6, 9 or 12 (multiples of 3). The lower number is most commonly an 8 (an eighth-note): as in 9

8 or 12

8.

An example

3

4 is a simple signature that represents three quarter notes. It has a basic feel of (Bold denotes a stressed beat):

one two three (as in a waltz)

Each quarter note might comprise two eighth-notes (quavers) giving a total of six such notes, but it still retains that three-in-a-bar feel:

one and two and three and

6

8: Theoretically, this can be thought of as the same as the six-quaver form of 3

4 above with the only difference being that the eighth note is selected as the one-beat unit. But whereas the six quavers in 3

4 had been in three groups of two, 6

8 is practically understood to mean that they are in two groups of three, with a two-in-a-bar feel (Bold denotes a stressed beat):

 

one and a, two and a

or

 

one two three, four five six

Beat and time[edit]

Time signatures indicating two beats per bar (whether it is simple or compound) are called duple time; those with three beats to the bar are triple time. To the ear, a bar may seem like one singular beat. For example, a fast waltz, notated in 3

4 time, may be described as being one in a bar. Terms such as quadruple (4), quintuple (5), and so on are also occasionally used.

 

Actual beat divisions[edit]

As mentioned above, though the score indicates a 3

4 time, the actual beat division can be the whole bar, particularly at faster tempos. Correspondingly, at slow tempos the beat indicated by the time signature could in actual performance be divided into smaller units.

 

Interchangeability, rewriting meters[edit]

 

3

4 equals 3

8 time at a different tempo About this sound Play (help·info)

On a formal mathematical level the time signatures of, e.g., 3

4 and 3

8 are interchangeable. In a sense, all simple triple time signatures, such as 3

8, 3

4, 3

2, etc.—and all compound duple times, such as 6

8, 6

16 and so on, are equivalent. A piece in 3

4 can be easily rewritten in 3

8, simply by halving the length of the notes. Other time signature rewritings are possible: most commonly a simple time signature with triplets translates into a compound meter.

  

12

8 equals 4

4 time at a different tempo and requires the use of tuplets About this sound Play (help·info)

Though formally interchangeable, for a composer or performing musician, different time signatures often have different connotations. First, a smaller note value in the beat unit implies a more complex notation, which can affect ease of performance. Second, beaming affects the choice of actual beat divisions. It is, for example, more natural to use the quarter note/crotchet as a beat unit in 6

4 or 2

2 than the eight/quaver in 6

8 or 2

4.[citation needed] Third, time signatures are traditionally associated with different music styles—it might seem strange to notate a rock tune in 4

8 or 4

2.

 

Stress and meter[edit]

For all meters, the first beat (the downbeat, ignoring any anacrusis) is usually stressed (though not always, for example in reggae where the offbeats are stressed); in time signatures with four groups in the bar (such as 4

4 and 12

8), the third beat is often also stressed, though to a lesser degree. This gives a regular pattern of stressed and unstressed beats, though notes on stressed beats are not necessarily louder or more important.

Complex time signatures[edit]

 

19

16 Time Drum Beat

MENU0:00

Problems playing this file? See media help.

See also: List of musical works in unusual time signatures, Quintuple meter, and Septuple meter

Signatures that do not fit the usual duple or triple categories are called complex, asymmetric, irregular, unusual, or odd—though these are broad terms, and usually a more specific description is appropriate.[citation needed] The term odd meter, however, sometimes describes time signatures in which the upper number is simply odd rather than even, including 3

4 and 9

8.[8] The irregular meters (not fitting duple or triple categories) are common in some non-Western music, but rarely appeared in formal written Western music until the 19th century. The first deliberate quintuple meter pieces were apparently published in Spain between 1516 and 1520,[8] though other authorities reckon that the Delphic Hymns to Apollo (one by Athenaeus is entirely in quintuple meter, the other by Limenius predominantly so), carved on the exterior walls of the Athenian Treasury at Delphi in 128 BC, are probably earlier.[9] The third movement (Larghetto) of Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 1 (1828) is an early, but by no means the earliest, example of 5

4 time in solo piano music. Reicha's Fugue 20 from his Thirty-six Fugues, published in 1803, is also for piano and is in 5

8. The waltz-like second movement of Tchaikovsky's Pathétique Symphony, often described as a limping waltz,[10] is a notable example of 5

4 time in orchestral music. Examples from the 20th century include Holst's Mars, the Bringer of War and Neptune, the Mystic (both in 5

4) from the orchestral suite The Planets, Paul Hindemith's Fugue Secunda in G,(5

8) from Ludus Tonalis, the ending of Stravinsky's Firebird (7

4), the fugue from Heitor Villa-Lobos's Bachianas Brasileiras No. 9 (11

8) and the themes for the Mission Impossible television series by Lalo Schifrin (in 5

4) and Jerry Goldsmith's theme for Room 222 (in 7

4).

 

In the Western popular music tradition, unusual time signatures occur as well, with progressive rock in particular making frequent use of them. The use of shifting meters in The Beatles' "Strawberry Fields Forever" (1967) and the use of quintuple meter in their "Within You, Without You" (1967) are well-known examples,[11] as is Radiohead's "Paranoid Android" (includes 7

8).[12]

 

Paul Desmond's jazz composition Take Five, in 5

4 time, was one of a number of irregular-meter compositions that The Dave Brubeck Quartet played. They played other compositions in 11

4 (Eleven Four), 7

4 (Unsquare Dance)—and 9

8 (Blue Rondo à la Turk), expressed as 2+2+2+3

8. This last is an example of a work in a signature that, despite appearing merely compound triple, is actually more complex.

 

However, such time signatures are only unusual in most Western music. Traditional music of the Balkans uses such meters extensively. Bulgarian dances, for example, include forms with 5, 7, 9, 11, 13, 15, 22, 25 and other numbers of beats per measure. These rhythms are notated as additive rhythms based on simple units, usually 2, 3 and 4 beats, though the notation fails to describe the metric "time bending" taking place, or compound meters. For example, the Bulgarian Sedi Donka consists of 25 beats divided 7+7+11, where 7 is subdivided 3+2+2 and 11 is subdivided 2+2+3+2+2 or 4+3+4.[citation needed] See Variants below..

While time signatures usually express a regular pattern of beat stresses continuing through a piece (or at least a section), sometimes composers place a different time signature at the beginning of each bar, resulting in music with an extremely irregular rhythmic feel. In this case the time signatures are an aid to the performers, and not necessarily an indication of meter. The Promenade from Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition (1874) is a good example:

In such cases, a convention that some composers follow (e.g., Olivier Messiaen, in his La Nativité du Seigneur and Quatuor pour la fin du temps) is to simply omit the time signature. Charles Ives's Concord Sonata has measure bars for select passages, but the majority of the work is unbarred.

 

Some pieces have no time signature, as there is no discernible meter. This is commonly known as free time. Sometimes one is provided (usually 4

4) so that the performer finds the piece easier to read, and simply has 'free time' written as a direction. Sometimes the word FREE is written downwards on the staff to indicate the piece is in free time. Erik Satie wrote many compositions that are ostensibly in free time, but actually follow an unstated and unchanging simple time signature. Later composers used this device more effectively, writing music almost devoid of a discernibly regular pulse.

Early music usage[edit]

Mensural time signatures[edit]

In the 14th, 15th and 16th centuries, a period in which mensural notation was used, four basic mensuration signs determined the proportion between the two main units of rhythm. There were no measure or bar lines in music of this period; these signs, the ancestors of modern time signatures, indicate the ratio of duration between different note values. The relation between the breve and the semibreve was called tempus, and the relation between the semibreve and the minim was called prolatio. The breve and the semibreve use roughly the same symbols as our modern double whole note (breve) and whole note (semibreve), but they were not limited to the same proportional values as are in use today. There are complicated rules concerning how a breve is sometimes three and sometimes two semibreves. Unlike modern notation, the duration ratios between these different values was not always 2:1; it could be either 2:1 or 3:1, and that is what, amongst other things, these mensuration signs indicated. A ratio of 3:1 was called complete, perhaps a reference to the Trinity, and a ratio of 2:1 was called incomplete.

 

A circle used as a mensuration sign indicated tempus perfectum (a circle being a symbol of completeness), while an incomplete circle, resembling a letter C, indicated tempus imperfectum. Assuming the breve is a beat, this corresponds to the modern concepts of triple meter and duple meter, respectively. In either case, a dot in the center indicated prolatio perfecta (compound meter) while the absence of such a dot indicated prolatio imperfecta (simple meter).

 

A rough equivalence of these signs to modern meters would be:

 

Mensural time signature 1 (alternative).svg corresponds to 9

8 meter;

Mensural time signature 2 (alternative).svg corresponds to 3

4 meter;

Mensural time signature 3 (alternative).svg corresponds to 6

8 meter;

Mensural time signature 4 (alternative).svg corresponds to 2

4 meter.

N.B.: in modern compound meters the beat is a dotted note value, such as a dotted quarter, because the ratios of the modern note value hierarchy are always 2:1. Dotted notes were never used in this way in the mensural period; the main beat unit was always a simple (undotted) note value.

 

Proportions[edit]

Another set of signs in mensural notation specified the metric proportions of one section to another, similar to a metric modulation. A few common signs are shown:[18]

 

Allabreve.svg tempus imperfectum diminutum, 1:2 proportion (twice as fast);

Mensural proportion 2.svg tempus perfectum diminutum, 1:2 proportion (twice as fast);

Mensural proportion 5.svg or just Mensural proportion 4.svg proportio tripla, 1:3 proportion (three times as fast, similar to triplets).

Often the ratio was expressed as two numbers, one above the other,[19] looking similar to a modern time signature, though it could have values such as 4

3, which a conventional time signature could not.

 

Some proportional signs were not used consistently from one place or century to another. In addition, certain composers delighted in creating "puzzle" compositions that were intentionally difficult to decipher.

 

In particular, when the sign Allabreve.svg was encountered, the tactus (beat) changed from the usual semibreve to the breve, a circumstance called alla breve. This term has been sustained to the present day, and though now it means the beat is a minim (half note), in contradiction to the literal meaning of the phrase, it still indicates that the beat has changed to a longer note value.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_signature

Gaudí conceived the Sagrada Família as if it were the structure of a forest, with a set of tree-like columns divided into various branches to support a structure of intertwined hyperboloid vaults. He inclined the columns so they could better resist the perpendicular pressures on their section. He also gave them a double turn helicoid shape (right turn and left turn), as in the branches and trunks of trees. This created a structure that is now known as fractal. Together with a modulation of the space that divides it into small, independent and self-supporting modules, it creates a structure that perfectly supports the mechanical traction forces without need for buttresses, as required by the neo-Gothic style. Gaudí thus achieved a rational, structured and perfectly logical solution, creating at the same time a new architectural style that was original, simple, practical and aesthetic.

 

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antoni_Gaud%C3%AD

Free download under CC Attribution (CC BY 2.0). Please credit the artist and rawpixel.com

 

Hu Zhengyan (c. 1584-1674) was a Chinese traditional painter, calligrapher, seal carver and publisher during the transition of the Ming and Qing dynasties. He produced China’s first printed publication in color, and was famous for his incredible techniques achieving gradation and modulation of shades in woodblock prints.

 

Higher resolutions with no attribution required can be downloaded: rawpixel

 

Having only seen the sculpture in it's various bronze incarnations this cast was a surprise. The more subtile modulations of the surface are more apparent without the applied highlighting of a patina that shifts greatly from cast to cast.

Well, without the advent of these devices, there could have been no radio, no tv, no computer, no cassette tapes, no electronic microphones, no speakers, no remote controls, no high tech toys, no CD players, no CD, no telephones, no LCD screens, no automation, no mainframes, no electonic sensors, no motion controlled alarms, no electronic fire alarms, no ATMs, no radar, no cruise missles, no lunar modules, no ECG, no optical fibers, no heart monitors, no digital watches, no mp3 players, no computers, no internet, no oscilloscopes, no electronic counter measures, no HUDs(heads up display), no DVD, no F-117, no smart bombs, no live television broadcast, no SMS messages, no GPRS, no frequency modulation, no amplitude modulation, no pulse width modulation, no short wave radio, no citizen bands radio, no phase locked loop circuits, no active filters, no bandpass filters, no html, no xhtml, no visual basic, no perl, no java, no c, no c++, no pascal, no basic, no css, no CALL CENTERS, no javascript, no USB, no mouse, no DSLR, no spectrum analyzers, no curve tracers, no cctv, no hdtv, no broadband... blah blah blah... did it get complicated??

 

If you can't understand, how about NO FLICKR? hahahaha.

 

This is a snapshot of an electronic circuit mounted on a PCB (printed circuit board). All electronic devices analog or digital has these kind of components, maybe smaller on some, and microscopic on some. Took this shot on one of my old remote controlled car controls. That small rounded brown thing in front is called a capacitor. The one with some stripes of different colors are called resistors. The black one on the center with multiple silver looking metals attached to it is called an IC (integrated circuit) -- it is usally composed of different transistors, capacitors, resistors and other electonic components. In the distance are groups of different capacitors too(the cylindrical looking components). A typical electronic circuit these days which are in your computers, cellphones and music players, contains millions of this components -- which are shrunk by recent technology to add more functionality and features to your device.

  

Best Viewed Large

  

Well do we have news for you… (:-D

 

Resulting from my latest visit to Singapore this week and the photo shoot we set up with my bro Philippe C.during my stay, we decided jointly to look into PP.. issues and take matters seriously... (:D into our own hands “so to speak” and create our very own processing approach that we have named : “Hallucinogenerix”.

 

Our theory goes like this... hang on...

 

Based on the saturation of lens “Aperture Mode Locking” AML and the self-amplitude “Time modulation coefficient” or TMC, Our work deals with the saturation of the lens Aperture mode locking mechanism. A quantitative description of TMC and the self-amplitude modulation effect in a laser cavity can be derived. Considering both the nonlinear and geometrical (curvature vector or CV) differences between lenses and camera sensors (full frame or not) we concluded that the “CV” differential relationship between cameras and lenses results in nonlinear light modulation.

 

The loss of the “Light Pulse Conformation Strength” or (LPCS) in a cavity due to “bleaching or excess or lack of light” creates a “Fast Saturation Absorbency” or FSA behavior of any type of camera and lens combination all together.

 

The “Intracavity Aperture Factor” or IAF specific to a given lens type produces the appearance of “FLICKERING” or image instabilities. Our goal was then to elaborate a formidable yet simple approach that allows the prediction of “FLICKERING” or image instabilities, and develop a post processing technique or method that can be as useful for short pulse laser cavity design in general than it is compared to a mouse pad - mouse relationship.

 

The obtained “Self-Amplitude Coefficient” or SAC is included within the TMC to which LPCS and FSA are added to give a ray-pulse matrix formalism, and a simple model for the temporal pulse parameters regarding only the self amplitude “Time Modulation Coefficient” or TMC can then be solve via a simple quadratic differential integration (Patent pending).

 

Our new “Hallucinogenerix” model sets a limit for the maximum pulse light energy of a stable solution for a given nonlinear modulation and “Camera Lens Combination” or CLC.

 

Our “Hallucinogenerix” post processing technique we are certain will soon become the newest and most revolutionary PP faved method yet we are certain. We simply baptized “ this new processing technique Lens Setting Dynamics” or “L.S.D.” (:D allows us not only to take night shots in broad daylight, but also gives us a stunning doubled and colored vision extremely useful for reflective photography. Combined with “ Hallucinogenerix” TM you are bound to see all sorts of colors in all sorts of way.

 

The above is the first of a series relating to this amazing Field and post-processing breakthrough.

 

To know more, thank you for sending your questions and donations to:

 

Maxsie & I at Wetakecash@ourbankaccount.com or wtc@ourbankaccount.com

 

D. Maxsie – D. Phil

 

P.S.: "Caution applies as D. may stand for delusional." A. Einstein

  

Best seen in Large. Thanks.

Wet misty rocks out and about with

modulation mike,and apertureandrew.

Thanks lads.

British Real Photograph postcard, no. 145. Photo: MGM (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer).

 

German-American-British film actress Luise Rainer (1910-2014) was the first to win multiple Academy Awards and the first to win back-to-back for The Great Ziegfeld (1936) and The Good Earth (1937). At the time of her death, thirteen days shy of her 105th birthday, she was the longest-lived Oscar recipient, a superlative that had not been exceeded as of 2020.

 

Luise Rainer was born in 1910 in Düsseldorf, in then the German Empire (now Germany). Her parents were Heinrich and Emilie (née Königsberger) Rainer. Her father was a businessman who settled in Europe after spending most of his childhood in Texas. Rainer's rebellious nature made her appear to be a "tomboy" and happy to be alone. She started her acting career in Berlin at age 16, under the pretext of visiting her mother, she traveled to Düsseldorf for a prearranged audition at the Dumont Theater. In the 1920s the theatre director Louise Dumont separated from her husband. Dumont was attached to a number of young actresses including Fita Benkhoff, Hanni Hoessrich, and Rainer. It has been presumed that Dumont was bisexual. Rainer later began studying acting with the leading stage director at the time, Max Reinhardt. By the time she was 18, several critics felt that she had an unusual talent for a young actress. She became a distinguished Berlin stage actress with Reinhardt's theatre ensemble. She also appeared in several German-language films. After years of acting on stage and in films in Austria and Germany, she was discovered by MGM talent scout Phil Berg, who signed her to a three-year contract in Hollywood in 1935. He thought she would appeal to the same audience as Swedish MGM star Greta Garbo. Mayer assigned actress Constance Collier to train her in speech and dramatic modulation, and Rainer's English improved rapidly.

 

Luise Rainer's first American film role was in the romantic comedy Escapade (Robert Z. Leonard, 1935) with William Powell. It is a remake of the popular Austrian Operetta film Maskerade/Masquerade (Willy Forst, 1934). The film generated immense publicity for Rainer, who was hailed as "Hollywood's next sensation." The following year she was given a supporting part as the real-life character Anna Held in the musical biography The Great Ziegfeld (Robert Z. Leonard, 1936), featuring William Powell. Despite her limited role, her emotion-filled performance so impressed audiences that she was awarded the Oscar for Best Actress. She was later dubbed the "Viennese Teardrop" for her dramatic telephone scene, attempting to congratulate Ziegfeld on his new marriage, in the film. On the evening of the Academy Award ceremonies, Rainer remained at home, not expecting to win. When Mayer learned she had won, he sent MGM publicity head Howard Strickling racing to her home to get her. She was also awarded the New York Film Critics' Award for the performance. For her next role, producer Irving Thalberg was convinced, despite the studio's disagreement, that she would also be able to play the part of a poor, plain Chinese farm wife opposite Paul Muni in The Good Earth (Sidney Franklin, 1937), based on Nobel Prize-winning author Pearl Buck's novel about hardship in China. The humble, subservient, and mostly silent character role was such a dramatic contrast to her previous vivacious character that she again won the Oscar for Best Actress. Rainer and Jodie Foster are the only actresses ever to win two Oscars by the age of thirty.

 

However, Luise Rainer later stated nothing worse could have happened to her than winning two consecutive Oscars, as audience expectations from then on would be too high to fulfill. A few months before the film was completed, Irving Thalberg died suddenly at the age of 37. Rainer commented years later: "His death was a terrible shock to us. He was young and ever so able. Had it not been that he died, I think I may have stayed much longer in films." After four more, insignificant roles, MGM and Rainer became disappointed, and she was dubbed "Box Office Poison" by the Independent Theatre Owners of America. Adding to her rapid decline, some feel, was the poor career advice she received from her then-husband, playwright Clifford Odets. She ended her brief three-year Hollywood career and returned to Europe where she helped get aid to children who were victims of the Spanish Civil War. Nevertheless, she was not released from her MGM contract and, by 1940, she was still bound to make one more film for the studio. Some film historians consider her the "most extreme case of an Oscar victim in Hollywood mythology". Rainer studied medicine and returned to the stage. In 1939, she made her first appearance at the Palace Theatre, Manchester in Jacques Deval's play 'Behold the Bride', and later played the same part in her London debut at the Shaftesbury Theatre. Returning to America, she played the leading part in George Bernard Shaw's 'Saint Joan' in 1940 at the Belasco Theatre in Washington, D.C. under the direction of German emigrant director Erwin Piscator. In 1943, she made an appearance in the film Hostages (Frank Tuttle, 1943). Rainer abandoned film making in 1944 after marrying publisher Robert Knittel. She made sporadic television and stage appearances, appearing in an episode of the World War II television series Combat! in 1965. She took a dual role in a 1984 episode of The Love Boat. She appeared in the film The Gambler (Károly Makk, 1997), starring Michael Gambon. It marked her film comeback at the age of 86. Luise Rainer passed away in 2014, in Belgravia, London, England. She was 104. Rainer married Clifford Odets in 1937 and they divorced in 1940. Her second husband was publisher Robert Knittel. They were married from 1945 till his death in 1989 and lived in the UK and Switzerland for most of their marriage. The couple had one daughter, Francesca Knittel.

 

Sources: Wikipedia and IMDb.

 

And, please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.

Belgian postcard by Kwatta / Nels Bromurite, no. 1182. Photo: Metro Goldwyn Mayer.

 

German-American-British film actress Luise Rainer (1910-2014) was the first to win multiple Academy Awards and the first to win back-to-back for The Great Ziegfeld (1936) and The Good Earth (1937). At the time of her death, thirteen days shy of her 105th birthday, she was the longest-lived Oscar recipient, a superlative that had not been exceeded as of 2020.

 

Luise Rainer was born in 1910 in Düsseldorf, in then the German Empire (now Germany). Her parents were Heinrich and Emilie (née Königsberger) Rainer. Her father was a businessman who settled in Europe after spending most of his childhood in Texas. Rainer's rebellious nature made her appear to be a "tomboy" and happy to be alone. She started her acting career in Berlin at age 16, under the pretext of visiting her mother, she traveled to Düsseldorf for a prearranged audition at the Dumont Theater. In the 1920s the theatre director Louise Dumont separated from her husband. Dumont was attached to a number of young actresses including Fita Benkhoff, Hanni Hoessrich, and Rainer. It has been presumed that Dumont was bisexual. Rainer later began studying acting with the leading stage director at the time, Max Reinhardt. By the time she was 18, several critics felt that she had an unusual talent for a young actress. She became a distinguished Berlin stage actress with Reinhardt's theatre ensemble. She also appeared in several German-language films. After years of acting on stage and in films in Austria and Germany, she was discovered by MGM talent scout Phil Berg, who signed her to a three-year contract in Hollywood in 1935. He thought she would appeal to the same audience as Swedish MGM star Greta Garbo. Mayer assigned actress Constance Collier to train her in speech and dramatic modulation, and Rainer's English improved rapidly.

 

Luise Rainer's first American film role was in the romantic comedy Escapade (Robert Z. Leonard, 1935) with William Powell. It is a remake of the popular Austrian Operetta film Maskerade/Masquerade (Willy Forst, 1934). The film generated immense publicity for Rainer, who was hailed as "Hollywood's next sensation." The following year she was given a supporting part as the real-life character Anna Held in the musical biography The Great Ziegfeld (Robert Z. Leonard, 1936), featuring William Powell. Despite her limited role, her emotion-filled performance so impressed audiences that she was awarded the Oscar for Best Actress. She was later dubbed the "Viennese Teardrop" for her dramatic telephone scene, attempting to congratulate Ziegfeld on his new marriage, in the film. On the evening of the Academy Award ceremonies, Rainer remained at home, not expecting to win. When Mayer learned she had won, he sent MGM publicity head Howard Strickling racing to her home to get her. She was also awarded the New York Film Critics' Award for the performance. For her next role, producer Irving Thalberg was convinced, despite the studio's disagreement, that she would also be able to play the part of a poor, plain Chinese farm wife opposite Paul Muni in The Good Earth (Sidney Franklin, 1937), based on Nobel Prize-winning author Pearl Buck's novel about hardship in China. The humble, subservient, and mostly silent character role was such a dramatic contrast to her previous vivacious character that she again won the Oscar for Best Actress. Rainer and Jodie Foster are the only actresses ever to win two Oscars by the age of thirty.

 

However, Luise Rainer later stated nothing worse could have happened to her than winning two consecutive Oscars, as audience expectations from then on would be too high to fulfill. A few months before the film was completed, Irving Thalberg died suddenly at the age of 37. Rainer commented years later: "His death was a terrible shock to us. He was young and ever so able. Had it not been that he died, I think I may have stayed much longer in films." After four more, insignificant roles, MGM and Rainer became disappointed, and she was dubbed "Box Office Poison" by the Independent Theatre Owners of America. Adding to her rapid decline, some feel, was the poor career advice she received from her then-husband, playwright Clifford Odets. She ended her brief three-year Hollywood career and returned to Europe where she helped get aid to children who were victims of the Spanish Civil War. Nevertheless, she was not released from her MGM contract and, by 1940, she was still bound to make one more film for the studio. Some film historians consider her the "most extreme case of an Oscar victim in Hollywood mythology". Rainer studied medicine and returned to the stage. In 1939, she made her first appearance at the Palace Theatre, Manchester in Jacques Deval's play 'Behold the Bride', and later played the same part in her London debut at the Shaftesbury Theatre. Returning to America, she played the leading part in George Bernard Shaw's 'Saint Joan' in 1940 at the Belasco Theatre in Washington, D.C. under the direction of German emigrant director Erwin Piscator. In 1943, she made an appearance in the film Hostages (Frank Tuttle, 1943). Rainer abandoned film making in 1944 after marrying publisher Robert Knittel. She made sporadic television and stage appearances, appearing in an episode of the World War II television series Combat! in 1965. She took a dual role in a 1984 episode of The Love Boat. She appeared in the film The Gambler (Károly Makk, 1997), starring Michael Gambon. It marked her film comeback at the age of 86. Luise Rainer passed away in 2014, in Belgravia, London, England. She was 104. Rainer married Clifford Odets in 1937 and they divorced in 1940. Her second husband was publisher Robert Knittel. They were married from 1945 till his death in 1989 and lived in the UK and Switzerland for most of their marriage. The couple had one daughter, Francesca Knittel.

 

Sources: Wikipedia and IMDb.

 

And, please check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.

A Place to Bury Strangers graces us with their presence once again. I'm still surprised this avant garde experimental band comes to St. Louis. The crowd, though not large, understands and appreciates this unique band. You have to see them to understand their artistry and power.

The subtitle of this series is the "madness of photographing in stobe lights". I asked Oliver Ackermann before they played if they were going to have strobes likes the first time I saw them. I just wanted to be ready for them. He laughed and, "Maybe." Oh yes there were strobes and they were even more intense than last time. It was a smaller more independent venue this time and maybe that made it easier to put on the show they REALLY wanted to. Though 60% of my shots were black, I managed to get a few.

 

#amy buxton

#Fall

#St. Louis

#A Place to Bury Strangers

#band

#music

#noise manipulation

#Off Broadway

#wave modulation

#Death By Audio

#Dion Lunadon

#Oliver Ackermann

#experimental rock

#space rock

#strobe light

#strobe

#concert

 

Copyright © 2019 Elizabeth Root Blackmer. All rights reserved.

I plugged a little light sensor into an amplifier to hear invisible light modulation. One of my LED candles had a surprise.

Acrylic on board; 11 x 14 in.

 

Julian Stanczak is an American painter and printmaker. The artist lives and works in Seven Hills, Ohio with his wife, the sculptor, Barbara Stanczak. He was born in eastern Poland in 1928. At the beginning of World War II, Stanczak was forced into a Siberian labor camp, where he permanently lost the use of his right arm. He had been right-handed. In 1942, aged thirteen, Stanczak escaped from Siberia to join the Polish army-in-exile in Persia. After deserting from the army, he spent his teenage years in a hut in a Polish refugee camp in Uganda. In Africa Stanczak learned to write and paint left-handed. He then spend some years in London, before moving to the United States in 1950. He settled in Cleveland, Ohio. Stanczak received his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from the Cleveland Institute of Art, Cleveland Ohio in 1954, and then trained under Josef Albers and Conrad Marca-Relli at the Yale University, School of Art and Architecture, New Haven, where he received his Master of Fine Arts in 1956.

 

In 2007, Stanczak was interviewed by Brian Sherwin for Myartspace. During the interview Stanczak recalled his experiences with war and the loss of his right arm and how both influenced his art. Stanczak explained, "The transition from using my left hand as my right, main hand, was very difficult. My youthful experiences with the atrocities of the Second World War are with me,- but I wanted to forget them and live a "normal" life and adapt into society more fully. In the search for Art, you have to separate what is emotional and what is logical. I did not want to be bombarded daily by the past,- I looked for anonymity of actions through non-referential, abstract art.

 

The Op Art movement was named for his first major show, Julian Stanczak: Optical Paintings, held at the Martha Jackson Gallery in New York in 1964. His work was included in the Museum of Modern Art's 1965 exhibition The Responsive Eye. In 1966 he was named a "New Talent" by Art in America magazine. In the early 1960s he began to make the surface plane of the painting vibrate through his use of wavy lines and contrasting colors in works such as Provocative Current (1965). These paintings gave way to more complex compositions constructed with geometric rigidity yet softened with varying degrees of color transparency such as Netted Green (1972). In addition to being an artist, Stanczak was also a teacher, having worked at the Art Academy of Cincinnati from 1957–64 and as Professor of Painting, at the Cleveland Institute of Art, 1964-1995. He was named "Outstanding American Educator" by the Educators of America in 1970.

 

Stanczak uses repeating forms to create compositions that are manifestations of his visual experiences. Stanczak's work is an art of experience, and is based upon structures of color. In the 1980s and 1990s Stanczak retained his geometric structure and created compositions with bright or muted colors, often creating pieces in a series such as Soft Continuum (1981; Johnson and Johnson Co. CT, see McClelland pl. 50). More recently, Stanczak has been creating large-scale series, consisting of square panels on which he examines variations of hue and chroma in illusionistic color modulations, an example of which is Windows to the Past (2000; 50 panels).

(noun) The inability to verbalize emotions or lack of emotional response. Difficulty in experiencing, expressing, and describing emotion. A failure to express feelings either verbally or non-verbally, especially when talking about issues that would normally require an emotional response. Poor modulation of feelings, significantly reduced intensity in emotional expression.

Korg MS-20 again.

Cycles is a unique step sequencer for crafting complex and experimental percussion patterns on the iPad. This is a proof of concept in the early stages of development.

untitled (modulations)

2016_08_13

charcoal pastel and graphite on manila tagboard

12" x 12" (30.48 x 30.48)cm

Matt Niebuhr

West Branch Studio

www.mattniebuhr.com

shop.mattniebuhr.com

it's quite funny how nowadays photography and the optical impression of social crossroads (television, printmedia) seemed to have turned to utter clean almost aseptic pictures - i'm deliberately excluding its verbal codes - avoiding any possible disturbance regarding noise or distortions, qualitywise and contentwise - sure, there always have been anachronistic turns with real and improvised analogue influences (holga) but over all we approached a race of clinical sterility in my eyes.

 

but doesn't the exact opposite stand for life, for slow decay: the rather change, inheriting modulation; the state of vagueness, of non-fixation, of influenceability, of persuasibility and therefore its consequences and their impacts?

 

have a nice day

The most basic of chords is three notes played together. The most common chord in western music is C major (C+E+G).

 

I could probably type several thousand words about chords and how their use in music creates certain feeling. I could discuss harmony, progression, modulation and many other concepts. All of these ideas I read in books.

 

There is one thing about music I have learned that I did not read in any book (although such a book likely exists). There is a pattern that suddenly became apparent to me a few years ago. I have become aware, that the music that I like the most all reminds me of food. Particularly Mexican music. mmm... sopes...

 

This can be a problem if a very strong pavlovian response is triggered, I might get some of those piano strings stuck between my teeth.

Tiziano Vecelli or Tiziano Vecellio (c. 1473/1490 – 27 August 1576 better known as Titian was an Italian painter, the most important member of the 16th-century Venetian school. He was born in Pieve di Cadore, near Belluno (in Veneto), in the Republic of Venice. During his lifetime he was often called da Cadore, taken from the place of his birth.

Recognized by his contemporaries as "The Sun Amidst Small Stars" (recalling the famous final line of Dante's Paradiso), Titian was one of the most versatile of Italian painters, equally adept with portraits, landscape backgrounds, and mythological and religious subjects. His painting methods, particularly in the application and use of color, would exercise a profound influence not only on painters of the Italian Renaissance, but on future generations of Western art.

During the course of his long life Titian's artistic manner changed drastically but he retained a lifelong interest in color. Although his mature works may not contain the vivid, luminous tints of his early pieces, their loose brushwork and subtlety of polychromatic modulations are without precedent in the history of Western art.

Today's Tune: "Aaj Latha Neo - Javed Bashir (Coke Studio)"

 

The Overview: Hellllllllllooooooooooo how are you guys !! Here's a little bit of more red for you all ;) and its from the "_________ITY" series. Well I was too busy with my exams for about a week and tomorrow's my last paper =D and I was dying to upload something so here is something unusual for you all. I am taking interest in some floral photography because am not finding any old doors and locks these days lolzz but still I am exploring them :). The tune is amazing again its from Coke Studio, this guy (Javed Bashir), his voice and modulation is too good! Do listen to it and have a great week. C ya all on your streams.

 

Started Sept. 15, completed Dec. 7, this 8000-piece art puzzle by Francisco de Goya ranks within the top few puzzles I've done in terms of difficulty. The very limited color palette, the dominance of muted and dark hues, and the fact that the image on the accompanying box didn't match the colors of the puzzle, made this one especially challenging. On the other hand, the painting's composition, punctuated by the square light-box and white shirt, and then emanating outwards into darker peripheries, made this one a real pleasure 'to watch grow.'

 

*****

 

I thought this might be a good time to provide some context about the painting itself - The Shootings of May 3rd, 1808 - which is very significant both in terms of Spanish art and art history in general. The text below is an excerpt from smarthistory.khanacademy.org/romanticism-in-spain.html:

 

Goya's dark vision

This painting offers an excellent example of the radical stylistic shift that rejects Neo-Classicism. Goya presents us with a dark vision of innocent Spaniards executed by a Napoleonic firing squad. In order to offer an explanation of what this event meant to Goya, we first need to introduce a little history.

 

The Napoleonic Empire

Napoleon Bonaparte, who, in a coup d'etat in 1799 seized control of post-revolutionary France from the weak governing body, the Directory. Napoleon eventually consolidated his power, and with a nod to Charlmagne and the Caesars declared himself Emperor. At the height of his power, Napoleon's empire included France, the low countries (Belgium, Luxembourg, and The Netherlands), Germany, Italy, Spain, and much of north Africa and the Near East. It is, of course, Spain that we need to focus on here.

 

By the end of the 18th century, Goya's talents had been rewarded and he had attained the post of First Painter to the Spanish monarch, King Charles IV. This enviable position was to be short lived, due to the poor judgment of the King. Early in the new century, Charles became convinced that Great Britain, which had previously wrest control of the world's seas from Spain, intended to invade its historical enemy.

 

The Crown's defensive response was catastrophic. Charles invited Napoleon Bonaparte to bring troops onto Spanish soil in order to defend against Great Britain, their great mutual enemy. The French recognized King Charles's fateful request as an admission of weakness and seized Spain. Eventually, Napoleon's brother, not the English, would replace Charles on the Spanish throne.

 

Initially, Goya, like many Spanish intellectuals, welcomed the French. Spain had been declining in wealth and power since the 16th century and had managed to avoid the beneficial revolutions in science, philosophy and industry that were then transforming Northwestern Europe. Intellectuals hoped that France would impose its modern Enlightenment culture on an increasingly reactionary Spain.

 

The Third of May, 1808

Goya's 1814 painting, The Third of May, 1808, The Shootings at Mount Principio Outside Madrid, expresses Goya's bitter disappointment. On May 2, 1808, a French soldier was shot dead in Madrid. A Spanish sniper was blamed for the murder, ostensibly an act in defense of Spanish autonomy. The French response was swift, brutal and wildly disproportionate.

 

On May Third, the following day, Napoleonic troops rounded up a large number of innocent civilians, marched them beyond the city's walls, and shot each of them. Goya depicts this grim scene by brilliantly twining form and content. In other words he finds ways to support the narrative through his choices in the actual construction of the canvas. For example:

 

Scale

This is a large canvas of a contemporary tragedy (the painting could be safely made only after Napoleon was deposed in 1814). It consciously refers to the historical use of large-scale history and religious painting (ex. David's Oath of the Horatii, 1784-85), asserting the Romantic claim that the present should reclaim its primacy over an idealized past. Large scale both implies significance and makes the scene both proximate and immediate for the viewer. Goya's scale places us not so much outside the canvas, looking in, but rather so that it seems that we are enveloped into the space, we are not so much observer as direct witnesses.

 

Composition

Rather than the more obvious solution where both the French and the Spanish face off in perfect and equal profile, Goya has shifted our vantage so that we more directly face the victims while the faces of the Napoleonic guard are obscured. This successful strategy increases our sympathy on the one hand while reducing the soldiers individuality and perhaps even equating them with the guns that become their faces on the other.

 

Similarly expressive is Goya's decision to trap the persecuted against the rising mountain and the heavy and forbidding blackness of the night sky. Finally, Goya multiplies the terror of the immediate ordeal by trailing the line of unfortunate captives into the distance, suggesting the that this action will by repeated throughout the night.

 

Line, Brushwork and Color

In sharp contrast to the smooth surfaces and modulation of tone seen in Neo-Classicism, French and Spanish Romanticism tended to strive instead for a more impulsive, more physical mark.

 

In Goya's painting the figures are rendered in comparatively broad and rough strokes of the brush. Like the mature work of the Great Spanish Baroque painter Diego Velasquez whom Goya so much admired, there is in the Third of May... an effort to invigorate and humanize the frozen compositions of the previously dominant styles (the High Renaissance and Neo-Classicism respectively). This newly recovered aggressiveness is also expressed through light and color. Goya intensifies the painting's emotional pitch by the interaction of sharp contrasts; light collides with expansive darks; white and yellow are sharp and vivid against the deep blacks, browns and reds.

 

Symbolism

Light is central to Goya's image. Like the Baroque masters, Gentileschi and de la Tour, the picture's sole source of light, the papered oil lantern controlled by the French, is contained within the frame of the canvas. Some art historians that specialize in Goya have suggested that this lantern functions as the bitter core of the painting. It symbolizes the Enlightenment that Goya had once hoped the French would bring to Spain but is here used to further their campaign of terror, the enlightenment turned to evil purpose. Certainly, the lantern focuses our attention on the spectrum of emotions on the face of those being shot.

 

Our eyes are drawn to the young man in white and yellow. In contrast to the pleading and terrified faces that surround him, he stands with arms up facing his enemy. It is in the mighty yet fragile bravery expressed in this man's face that Goya's deep humanity becomes apparent. But Goya invests this figure with even greater importance. While at first the figure's raised arms might be read as a sort of active surrender, Goya is in fact mimicking Christ upon the cross. Note the stigmata that appears in the figure's right hand. Goya has cast this massacre as a martyrdom borrowing more than scale from the history of art.

These retro graphics adorn an electronics-themed magazine from 1964. Cool find from Wuhan's flea market.

A Place to Bury Strangers graces us with their presence once again. I'm still surprised this avant garde experimental band comes to St. Louis. The crowd, though not large, understands and appreciates this unique band. You have to see them to understand their artistry and power.

The subtitle of this series is the "madness of photographing in stobe lights". I asked Oliver Ackermann before they played if they were going to have strobes likes the first time I saw them. I just wanted to be ready for them. He laughed and, "Maybe." Oh yes there were strobes and they were even more intense than last time. It was a smaller more independent venue this time and maybe that made it easier to put on the show they REALLY wanted to. Though 60% of my shots were black, I managed to get a few.

 

#ambuxton

#Fall

#St. Louis

#A Place to Bury Strangers

#band

#music

#noise manipulation

#Off Broadway

#wave modulation

#Death By Audio

#Dion Lunadon

#Oliver Ackermann

#experimental rock

#space rock

#strobe light

#strobe

#concert

Cycles is a unique step sequencer for crafting complex and experimental percussion patterns on the iPad. This is a proof of concept in the early stages of development.

Sample image taken with a Fujinon XF 56mm f1.2 R mounted on a Fujifilm XT1 body; each of these images is an out-of-camera JPEG with Lens Modulation Optimisation enabled. These samples and comparisons are part of my Fujinon XF 56mm f1.2 R review at:

 

cameralabs.com/reviews/Fujifilm_Fujinon_XF_56mm_f1-2_R/

 

Feel free to download the original image for evaluation on your own computer or printer, but please don't use it on another website or publication without permission from www.cameralabs.com/

The loss of communications during a nuclear war was a very real threat and United States’ National Command Authority needed to be able to maintain communications with the triad of strategic nuclear weapon delivery systems during such an event. Their solution was a series of survivable airborne communication links whose primary mission was to relay signals from a command plane to the strategic forces. The system, named TACAMO (“Take Charge and Move Out”), uses verification, modulations, and encryption techniques across virtually every radio frequency from very-low frequency (VLF) up through super-high frequency (SHF)

 

In this image, an EC-130G (a modified C-130E) of the Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron 4 (VQ-4 “Shadows”) at Naval Air Station (NAS) Patuxent River, Maryland, performs tests over along the Barrier Islands on east coast of the United States. It is designed as an Airborne Battlefield Command and Control Center (ABCCC) for the United States Air Force and Navy. The Navy’s TACAMO variant was fitted with VLF transmitters to provide communications with ballistic missile submarines.