Almost half a century after World War II, in an abandoned, dust-filled storage shed beside an old photography studio in Esfahan, Iran, Parisa Damandan found a unique collection of stunning Diane Arbus-esque photographs shot by Abolqasem Jala that are reminders of war in general and World War II’s human displacement. These discoveries were revealed in a book titled The Children of Esfahan, published in Tehran. The images were studio photos of Polish refugees in Iran, children who found haven there as Germans and Russians laid waste to their homeland. Not Always Sad TimesMajid Abassi, editor of Neshan, the Iranian design journal, who sent this to me after reading my piece “A Sad Smile,” told me that many of the Polish children settled in Esfahan (Isfahan) and south Iran after being imprisoned by Russian captors. “The point of this book is that these were not always sad times but sometimes happy,” he noted. “They found Iran as a safe place for their life.” The following is Damandan’s fascinating Introduction:My search for the historical roots of photography in my city of birth led me to old photography studios and into the lives of their photographers. Early in my research, consulting with older photographers, I realized that the Sharq Photography Studio on Chahar Bagh Street was one of the older studios in the city. The studio was still in operation and was being managed by the sons of the late Abolqassem Jala, the accomplished Isfahani photographer. Both sons, Reza and Ali Jala, were welcoming of my inquiries and provided valuable information about their father. Sharq Photography Studio owed its fame in part to the precision and expertise of Abolqassem Jala in portrait photography and in other parts to his many years of experience in photojournalism and documentary photography. The results of his efforts, stored on dusty shelves in the abandoned shed behind the studio, were thousands of forgotten glass negatives packed in old boxes bearing names of Kodak, Agfa, Lumière and Gevaert. Each box was carefully marked by the photographer, with information indicating the subject of the photographs as well as their date. Over 20 boxes were labeled Lahestani-ha, 1321-23 (“Pols, 1942-44”). Abolqassem Jala’s sons explained that their father had taken studio photographs of thousands of Pols who had taken refuge in Isfahan during World War II. The sons of Abolqassem allowed me access to their father’s collection, including the Pols, so that in due time I could examine them and use them for my research. In so doing they have honored me greatly with their trust and generosity. It has been ten years now since I first laid eyes on this valuable collection. The Polish collection included 11,000 negatives ranging in size — 4×6, 6×6 and 12×9 centimeters — and included studio portraits of individuals and groups as well as a limited number of portraits taken outside the studio, in the homes of the Polish refugees. Interestingly, the majority of those appearing in these portraits are children, women and youth. Except for a few older men, or uniformed men, grown males are largely absent from the frame. More research led to more historical information on their odyssey and their trail to Iran. Captured as war prisoners by the Russian Army in East Poland during WWII, a group of Polish citizens spent several difficult years working in forced labor camps in Russia before migrating to Iran following an agreement between the Russians and the Allies. A small group of about 3,000 of these refugees consisted of orphaned children, who were transferred to Isfahan along with their caregivers. The hands of fate changed the course of their lives forever, allowing them to escape the hell of taigas, the steppes of Kazakistan, the deserts of Turkmenistan and Siberia and to be taken to a green and flourishing oasis in the heart of the desert — this paradise known as Isfahan. They found an opportunity to rest and to some extent forget the bitterness of their experiences. In the tranquility of this city they regained their lost strength and found hope in life and the promise of a better future. Their residence in Isfahan was also their place of eduction, which could bring a better understanding of their own culture. Their residence also provided valuable space for the happiness and play of children. According to available statistics, approximately one million Pols were transferred to Russia. Of these, nearly 116,000 came to Iran as refugees. Only 2.5% of those who survived the labor camps were transferred to Isfahan. This is not a significant percentage. After several years in Isfahan, most of the Polish children were transferred to Lebanon. They continued their education there, but like a spiritually connected group, these individuals identified themselves as the children of Isfahan, until they were relocated to other parts of the world, such as the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Poland, England, as well as other European cities. They dispersed after this final relocation. They settled in new neighborhoods, got married, became home owners and had children of their own. But time and distance was no match for their deep spiritual connection. Eventually, these polish children grew old and retired, and some passed away. But those who are still alive remain in contact with one another. In fact, once a year, they come together in one corner of the world to visit with each other and speak of their memories, which they have published in the form of a book titled Isfahan the City of Polish Children. Since the book before you has freely drawn upon several resources, including the translation of sections of diaries in Isfahan the City of Polish Children, the writings of Ms. Christina Escuarco, and documents at the National Iranian Documentary Organization, I have not footnoted individual references but refer the reader to the bibliography for further readings. Additionally, my friend Leo Davindal, the renowned Dutch writer and photographer, has written an introduction to this book. I would like to take the opportunity to thank him and others who have assisted me in the preparation of this book. I would especially like to express my gratitude to Reza, Ali and other members of the Jala family, Khosrow Sinaiee, Leon Minasian, Soheil Nafisi, Houshang Dayyari, Mahmoud Bahmanpour, and all those who contributed to the printing and publication of this book with their precision and expertise. The Essence of LifeThe main goal of this book, of course, is to introduce the unique collection of photographs of Polish Refugees in Iran taken by Abolqassem Jala. These photographs not only provide an insight into a chapter in the history of World War II, but are of particular aesthetic value. Although outside the photography studio the bitter realities of war and migration persisted, looking at these photographs, it appears as if the essence of life has, even if momentarily, pushed violence and ugliness to the side and recorded another reality on glass negative. For only a few seconds the war disappears behind dust and fog, guns stop roaring, and polonaise is heard as young girls begin to dance in the rigid silence of the photograph. The post Polish Refugees in Iran appeared first on Print Magazine. via Tumblr Polish Refugees in Iran
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Brian Eno started his career in art school, originally intending to be a painter, and the covers of his albums over the last four decades reflect his longstanding interest in visual art. Eno was always heavily involved in the sleeve design, often conceptualizing or even creating the intriguing cover art himself. Several noted artists and designers over the years have worked on Brian Eno album covers, including Peter Schmidt, Tom Phillips, Russell Mills, and Peter Saville. Geeta Dayal, author Brian Eno’s Another Green World, offers ten of her favorite Brian Eno album covers of all time. Here Come the Warm Jets (1973) Carol McNicoll, Eno’s then-girlfriend and the brains behind Eno’s fantastical costumes for his Roxy Music gigs, supervised the album’s cheeky cover design. The cover’s artfully-arranged mess of dead flowers, bizarre playing cards, cigarette butts, teapots, and portraits of Eno in his glam phase, among other things, is dense with coded references. Eno/Fripp: No Pussyfooting (1973) No Pussyfooting was the first of several fruitful collaborations between Eno and guitarist Robert Fripp that used a tape-delay looping system, allowing the duo to create dense, shimmering layers of sound. The album’s striking hall-of-mirrors cover — in which Eno and Fripp are reflected over and over, seemingly into infinity — also illustrated Eno and Fripp’s budding approach to making music. Taking Tiger Mountain [by Strategy] (1974) Eno strikes many poses here, in a series of quirky lithographs created by Eno’s close friend, the late artist Peter Schmidt. Schmidt and Eno would go on to release the Oblique Strategies cards, a deck of idiosyncratic instructions designed to coax artists out of creative ruts, the following year. Another Green World (1975) The album’s pastoral cover art is a detail from “After Raphael,” a painting by Tom Phillips, Eno’s mentor during his days at Ipswich Art College. (Some believe that the boy in the foreground, with the blond hair and the red beanie, is meant to be Eno.) The back cover depicts the decidedly un-rocking image of Eno sitting up in bed, reading a book — underlining the album’s general vibe of stillness, solitude, and quiet reflection. Discreet Music (1975) As Eno’s music became more ambient and conceptual, there was a gradual erosion of Eno’s image from the cover of his records. The back cover of the LP sported a stylized operational diagram of the chain of effects used to generate the music — emphasizing Eno’s budding theoretical interest in “the studio as musical instrument.” Music for Films (1976) In the liner notes for this intriguing collection of instrumental fragments, Eno wrote that Music for Films was intended for “possible use as soundtracks to imaginary films” and even sent the LP to filmmakers. The cover was intentionally left blank, inviting the listener to project his own imagination onto the dark, atmospheric music. Before and After Science (1977) An oversaturated black-and-white photograph of Eno — taken by his erstwhile girlfriend, Ritva Saarikko — adorns the minimal cover. The stark album art, and the jagged riffs of nervy, spastic songs like “King’s Lead Hat,” prefigured the new wave style that would become ubiquitous a few years later. The original LP also included four moody offset prints by Peter Schmidt, which are now collectors’ items. Music for Airports (1978) Music for Airports was the first album in the Ambient series; the distinctive abstract cover art for these albums was designed by Eno. The delicate network of tendrils is reminiscent of tree branches, or ancient maps, and the palette of muted earth tones — sage, ochre, aquamarine — brings nature to mind. Eno/Byrne: My Life in the Bush of Ghosts (1981) The original packaging, designed by Peter Saville of Factory Records fame, was conceived with the help of early video art. The vivid abstract cover was created using primitive video feedback; cameras were pointed at monitors to generate prismatic spirals of color. For the recent deluxe reissue of the album, new art was designed by Peter Buchanan-Smith, drawing on the original palette of hues and textures for inspiration. On Land (1982) On Land was the fourth and last installment in Eno’s Ambient series, and the cover was again designed by Eno. The unique color halftone print depicts what looks like blue worms floating on an arid desert landscape. Why worms? The album’s dark soundscapes were composed through a process that Eno referred to as “composting,” using piles of nature recordings and recycled bits of previous work as starting materials. The worms were the agents of this composting, one assumes. The post The Album Covers of Brian Eno appeared first on Print Magazine. via Tumblr The Album Covers of Brian Eno DESIGNerd, a multiple choice design trivia game app and analog card game, was founded and developed by Australian-based designer and publisher, Kevin Finn, on behalf of design enthusiasts the world over. When asked what inspired DESIGNerd 100+, Finn says simply: “I’m a self-confessed DESIGNerd, passionate about all forms of design. I simply want to share design knowledge with other design enthusiasts, but in a fun and engaging way. And, what could be more engaging than learning what some of our most respected designers think is relevant or interesting to know?” For a free trial app, go here. The post Multiple Choices appeared first on Print Magazine. via Tumblr Multiple Choices Catholic school-girl plaids. Indestructible hotel carpets. A zillion university emblems. Wherever one finds a dreary bureaucracy, making weak swipes at respectability, the same color palette emerges over and over. Whether you call the burgundy color maroon or—for the literary-minded or sartorially inclined—cordovan or oxblood, this brick-red shade has somehow come to epitomize officialdom. But why? Burgundy: A ChoiceSome color mysteries crack easily upon research; others resist yielding their secrets. I must confess burgundy/maroon’s origin story has me thoroughly stumped—which is itself intriguing. The color wraps so many official surfaces, it’s almost become invisible. And yet, a designer choosing burgundy for a color palette is making a charged claim—or rather, shying forcibly away from making such a claim. Burgundy is unassailable in its propriety, inarguable to those who fear color’s mercurial charms. How we got here is a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in maroon-colored, crunchy bacon. Let’s start with a plausible theory: overuse. Red is perhaps the classic heavy-rotation color, allied inextricably as it is with blood and everything blood connotes: love, passion, valor, meat. The sunny uncomplicated reds of candy hardly exist in nature; organic reds run much more towards a gamut of reds tinged with bronze, blue or black. While it runs violently fluid, blood is red; but it darkens instantly to brownish-red, perhaps directly into rich brown earth with its many variations of shade. Blood, earth, nature: what themes are more resonant of patria, courage, nationhood, the highest values of valor? Wine and DirtThe term “burgundy” specifically refers to one of the biggest wine-producing regions of France, a spot of land rich with tangled vineyards and squabbled over bloodily for centuries. The original tribes of Germanic Burgundians give the color its name today. In reaching and reaching again for these universals, burgundy has gotten more than a little tarnished by overuse—and fatigued, conservative, even defensive as a result. When Pantone chose this color—which they dubbed Marsala—its 2015 Color of the Year, it screamed retrenchment, groundedness, conservatism. Or we could advance a more pragmatic theory: dirt-proofing. I recall a particular industrial carpet covering the dining room floor in a retirement home where I worked as a waiter as a teenager. A bewildering mix of paisleys with similar blobs, its chief color was a burgundy with faded yellow and teal whorls. Vaguely I recall gold braiding as part of the supposedly regal motif. Its imperviousness to soiling was legion. You could grind bright-yellow mustard into its paisley swirls, or explode an entire tiny capsule of dairy creamer onto its nubbly surface. A few well-placed twists of your boot heel, and the carpet would magically absorb your dastardly work. (We were in high school, so believe me: we killed many hours doing this.) Catholic-school uniforms are another provenance where burgundy, improbably, rules. As a liturgical color, red dominates cardinal wear (and the famously crimson Pope’s shoes). It symbolizes all the unsurprising things you might readily guess: Christ’s blood shed for humanity’s sake, the Holy Spirit (a sort of animus running through all church members, binding them into a community). It’s pretty un-arguable to good Catholics why you’d choose to clothe your students in a muted version of the blood of Christ. You can’t pick a loftier, more correct symbol to aspire to. But why muted? That’s the rub, really—and here’s where dirt-proofing likely kicks in. as the reason. The plaids in kelly-green, navy-blue or burgundy favored in school uniforms worldwide are dirt-proof in the extreme. Flattering to no one, they’re equalizing as intended. Also, it’s exhausting to wear blood-red every single day. Momentary passions get tempered for everyday use – muted, backgrounded, rendered symbolically reverent while graciously ignorable. Or maybe it’s the plaid that makes all these burgundies an invisibly officious blur. I went looking online for burgundy uniforms, school or otherwise, and found quite a few rakish alternatives —like these Indian schoolgirls above or Tibetan monks below. With its warm-yellow undertones, burgundy favors the non-European portion of the world’s complexions—that is to say, the vast majority of people. Despite everything we know about color, it still stubbornly contains secrets. And that’s exactly why I find the topic fascinating. The “true” facts of color symbolism are grounded in reality, but equally dependent on cultural connotations, folklore, popular theories, and everyday uses accreting around the shade. Burgundy has become official, and every new appropriation of the color affirms that use. Why? We can only guess. The post How Did Burgundy Become the Color of Officialdom? appeared first on Print Magazine. via Tumblr How Did Burgundy Become the Color of Officialdom? I grew up drinking Orange Crush and hearing my mom tell stories of how it used to come in a distinct brown Crush bottle, supposedly to protect the flavor. But by the time I was a kid, those days were long gone, and their bottles were clear. I was also aware that Orange Crush was made in my hometown, Evanston, Illinois—or at least it had a plant in town. A Crush Bottle DiscoveryOne day when I was about 12 years old, I was riding my Schwinn Sting-Ray down Asbury Avenue, and I noticed that a house in the neighborhood was being demolished. I pulled over by the garage (which looked like it was about to fall over on its own) and looked through one of the windows. There was no car and nothing much interesting to look at, except for four or five open cardboard boxes. I walked in to get a better look. The boxes were filled with pop bottles, and my first thought was to take them to the grocery store for the two-cent deposits. But as I looked closer, I noticed that these bottles didn’t look like the ones I was used to seeing. Here were brown Orange Crush bottles just like my mom had told me about. These were old! I had leafed through enough old issues of Life and The Saturday Evening Post to know that the majority of the bottles appeared to be from the 1930s and ’40s. I asked one of the guys responsible for the demolition if I could have the bottles. “If you can cart ’em outta there, you can have ’em,” he told me. “We were gonna dump’ em.” (Lots of ems.) Besides the Crush bottles, there were Royal Crown Cola, Nesbitt, 7Up, Pepsi, Squirt, Nehi, Vernor’s, Hires, Green River, Canada Dry, Dr. Pepper, and, of course, Coke. A Fizzy FormulaThis piece concentrates specifically on the Orange Crush bottles. The first 11 bottles in the photos below came from the garage. The others I’ve picked up through the years. Like many early soft-drink beverages, Orange Crush was created by a chemist, Neil C. Ward, and was originally called “Ward’s Orange Crush”. When Ward cofounded the company in 1911 with Clayton J. Howell, actual orange pulp was part of the original formula. (It was used through to 1930 but eventually dropped from the mixture.) The Dr. Pepper/Snapple Group now owns the Crush line of beverages. The Artist and the OrangeEvanston, Illinois, served as one of Crush International’s headquarters in the 1960s. I often rode my bike past the building, which was in the west of the city, in an industrial area on Main Street. One day I decided to go inside. The first thing I saw was a couple of vintage advertisements on the wall. I took a closer look and realized that they were original illustrations done in an orange-black, two-tone technique. I recognized the artist’s name immediately—Norman Rockwell. They were from the same period as his early Saturday Evening Post cover illustrations. I’ve often wondered who was lucky enough to take possession of those after the company relocated. Evidently, the Crush work (there were flavors in addition to orange) was the only advertising commission that Rockwell ever signed a contract for. Here are the bottles…The post Vintage Orange Crush Soda Bottles Take a Ribbing appeared first on Print Magazine. via Tumblr Vintage Orange Crush Soda Bottles Take a Ribbing Campden BRI launches research project to evaluate how 3D printing could benefit food industry4/22/2019 Campden BRI have begun a research project to evaluate how 3D printing could benefit the food industry. via Tumblr Campden BRI launches research project to evaluate how 3D printing could benefit food industry To keep rockets from getting too hot during the extreme temperatures of launch, insulation is essential — but it’s not always easy to fit it into a spacecraft’s cramped machinery. via Tumblr 3D printed molds help to insulate NASA supersize Space Launch System On March 27, 2019, the joint project IDAM held its kick-off meeting in Munich, which was intended to lead the way for furthering the use of AM processes in automotive series production. via Tumblr BMBF project IDAM to enable metallic 3D printing in automotive series production French biotechnology company Poietis has announced the granting of a third patent for its laser-assisted 3D bioprinting technology. via Tumblr Poietis granted third European patent for laser-assisted 3D bioprinting technology GE Research is leading a $2.5 MM project through the Advanced Research Projects Agency’s (ARPA-E) High Intensity Thermal Exchange through Materials and Manufacturing Processes program (HITEMMP) to develop a high temperature, high pressure and super-compact heat exchanger enabled by additive manufacturing technology. via Tumblr GE Research uses 3D printing to design Ultra Performance Heat Exchanger |
Charles Gorton
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