An unusual creation from the studio of André-Adolphe-Eugène Disdéri, (circa. 1862) the French photographer (pictured below) best known for inventing the hugely popular “carte de visite”.
In this wonderful example, titled “Les Jambes de l’Opera”, Disdéri has created a collage composed entirely of legs belonging to opera (and ballet) stars
Although his patent on the “carte de visite” initially made him extremely wealthy, Disdéri ended up dying a penniless man.
His system of reproducing photographs was itself so easy to reproduce that photographers soon did so without Disdéri benefiting, and the format was replaced in the late 1860s by the larger cabinet card format.
King of the wild frontier. Photograph: Tim Mercer/The Observer
This article by Ena Kendall was published in the Observer Magazine on 14 October 1984
Pop singer Adam Ant lives in a ground-floor flat in a late-Victorian house in North London.
He always refers to it in conversation as an apartment, the influence of a two-year sojourn in America, and he sees it as his “port of calm” in a, no doubt, restless sea of travel.
Mostly he has to work under blazing lights and he reacts to this in private life by preferring restful interiors, low light and muted colours. The contrast extends to himself.
Beneath the professional showiness of the pop performer, there is an apparently cool-headed and careful individual whose regularity of feature and clarity of skin is enhanced by the subtlest suggestion of make-up.
He was wearing black ankle-hugging trousers and a shirt with bushy-bearded portraits of Karl Marx over one pocket. The pictures signify nothing, certainly not political attachment.
“It’s a hand-made shirt I bought about seven years ago and the trousers the same. It’s called the anarchy shirt. I like the idea of there being some sort of anarchy in fashion, as there was in 1977, a year when I became involved in a sort of anarchy in pop music.
But I’m not the slightest bit interested in politics: if you said, what would you rather do, sit through politics or go to the dentist, I would much prefer to go to the dentist.”
The crowd was much, much bigger than expected, which helped turn a music festival into the stuff of legend.
Photo Credit: John Dominis/The LIFE Picture Collection via Getty Images
Fifty years ago, a farm in Bethel, New York, traded 650 Guernsey cows for 400,000 human beings and a lot—a whole lot—of drugs. A few of those humans were famous, and were there to play music for the rest of them.
The occupation there was brief, but intensive. It was August 1969, and the site has been widely interpreted as a kind of mass ritual gathering.
It’s also been interpreted as Woodstock.“For many hippies,” says Damon Bach, a historian at Texas A&M University, “it was three halcyon days where they were immersed in their ideal microsociety.
”Woodstock brings certain sounds and images to mind. Jimi Hendrix’s iconic “Star Spangled Banner.” Joe Cocker’s croon. Sha Na Na’s anachronism.
Masses of people rolling around in mud, if just for a little while. And when the last notes of Hendrix’s “Hey Joe” faded, there was little to do in Bethel besides head home. But not before cleaning up.
Archaeologists excavate test units in the general area of the stage. Public Archaeology Facility, Binghamton University
Since the concert, not much has happened on the Woodstock site.
There have been some anniversary events, sure, but nothing even remotely approaching the scale and impact of the first.
This makes life easier for the archaeologists who have been digging into the material history of the legendary festival.
Over the past two years, researchers from Binghamton University, in conjunction with the Museum at Bethel Woods, conducted excavations and surveys on the site, to see what 72 hours of peace and love look like 50 years later.
Concert-goers at Woodstock, 1969. ‘What people were trying to do was get higher, spiritually.’ Photograph: Elliott Landy/The Image Works
Throughout the Woodstock music festival, which celebrates its 50th anniversary later this month, concert-goers scaled 70ft sound towers to get a better look at what was happening on stage.
Depending on your view, this was either “insanely dangerous”, as production coordinator John Morris described it in Woodstock: An Oral History – the towers weren’t set up to hold all that extra weight and one fallen structure could have killed “hundreds of people” – or an expression of the joyful sense of freedom that pervaded the four-day event in August 1969.
For photographer Elliott Landy, who captured the climbers during his in-depth coverage of Woodstock, the ascent of the sound towers, though dangerous, has a broader meaning.
‘It really symbolises the nature of the 60s,” he says, “which was that people were trying to get higher’.