Friday, September 29, 2017

An 'Explosive' Idea

"Must necessarily bear the stamp of the times"


            The word 'magazine' comes to English from Arabic via Italian and French words meaning warehouse or, more specifically, a place to store munitions.
            In the hands of businessman Edward Cave a magazine was an explosive concept. He first published "Gentleman's Magazine" in January 1731, making it the world's first such publication.
            He explained to readers that his invention was "a Monthly Collection, to treasure up, as in a Magazine, the most remarkable Pieces on the Subjects above-mentioned, or at least impartial Abridgements thereof."
            Besides being its publisher, Cave was also its editor. He pushed his pen under the name Sylvanus Urban, reflecting his intention that the magazine appeal to both well-heeled city dwellers and rural lords and ladies.
            "Our Magazine," he wrote, "must necessarily bear the stamp of the times, and the political, historical, and miscellaneous parts, dilate or contract in proportion to the reigning taste."
            It covered all aspects of daily life—Parliamentary debates; reports on new inventions and medical treatments; natural history; archaeology; poetry; literary essays; news from the American colonies; agricultural prices; accounts of battles; sermons; lurid crime news; gossip; and listings of birth, deaths, ecclesiastical promotions, and obituaries. In short, it was an 18th century internet.
            Here is a sampling of articles one might have found in the "Gentleman's Magazine":
            * An account of Edward Jenner's vaccinations against smallpox;
            * An article about advancements in cataract surgery. (Doctors were now using knives to operate on eyes instead of scissors.);
            * A discussion of where swallows went in the winter;
            * A description of a balloon ride;
            * Schematic drawings of a 30-hour sand chronometer and a "Centrifugal Engine for extracting water out of Ships";
            * An exquisite illustration of an armadillo accompanied with an article about the characteristics of a specimen in Lord Southwell's possession: "This creature was brought hither from the Mosquito shore, upon the American continent...It is fed with raw beef and milk, and refuses our grain and fruits.";
            * Tabloid tales such as this dreadful account: "A man at Farringdon Wash, near Fairford, having procured a ferret to hunt rats, the creature, while the family were busy, settled upon the cheek of an infant in the cradle, and could not be got of till it was choaked. The poor little infant died of the agony."
            * An essay on "The capacity of Noah's Ark minutely considered." Its charts revealed where different beasts were housed;
            * A design for a submarine. Yale University's library subscribed to the magazine. Yale student David Bushnell saw this 1747 story. He then wrote his master's thesis on a curious submersible contraption he called the Turtle. In September 1776, the Continental Army used it to attack a British warship.
            * Missionary work among Georgia's Chickasaw Indians by John Wesley. (He would later found the Methodist Church.);
            * A description of a cure for nervous spasms using "Russian Castor," a substance made from hairs plucked from the foreskins of Russian beavers. Presumably the beavers were dead when the plucking was done.;
            The magazine even published what might have been the world's first April Fools story. It reported that a centaur had been born in England and would soon appear at Charing Cross in London.
            Cave's cornucopia of sublime insights and scandal made him wealthy. His magazine became the most influential publication in Georgian-era England. It had, for its time, a massive circulation—more than 10,000 copies. (Remarkably long lived, it ceased publication in 1922.)


            Cave wasn't afraid of a fight. Before starting the "Gentleman's Magazine," he published a newsletter while working as a postal clerk. Some accused him of opening people's mail to obtain news. Nothing could be proven.
            His business plan beat Reader's Digest by more than a century. His magazine "contain[ed] the essays and intelligence which appeared in the two hundred half sheets which the London press then threw off monthly." In other words, some of its contents would be abridged. In many cases, he reprinted others' work with no alternations.
            Other publishers were furious that this scoundrel would profit from their sweat. They filed lawsuits. Cave responded that it is "better that the proprietors should suffer some damage, than the acquisition of knowledge should be obstructed with unnecessary difficulties." In today's parlance, he would have said, "Information wants to be free."

A Nice Game of Shuttlecock

            Cave was a big man, and not just because he was a media titan. He stood more than six-feet tall and was heavy set. He had his peculiarities—He only drank milk and water. For four years he was a vegetarian. He liked a nice game of shuttlecock. Like the fictional Perry White of Superman's Daily Planet newspaper, he was mean-spirited and pompous or so said his detractors.
            He lived and breathed his magazine. His long-time reporter Samuel Johnson said Cave "never looked out of the window but with a view to the Gentleman's Magazine." Perhaps partly thanks to Cave's tutelage, Johnson become one England's renowned writers and the creator of the greatest dictionary the world had seen. Cave gave him his first job in publishing. One of Johnson's biographers said Cave gave his cub reporter Johnson assignments that were "almost unparalleled in range and variety."
            One of Cave's great innovations involved reporting on Parliamentary debates. No one had ever done this before. Why? It was illegal. No matter—He sent friends and Johnson to sit in the galleries of the House of Commons.
            He then ran accounts of speeches and MPs sarcastic remarks. Soon MPs gave Cave transcripts of their speeches, possibly marking the first time politicians leaked flattering information to the press.
           Ultimately, the magazine's reporting infuriated the House. Cave refused to back down. He continued publishing its debates, but with a twist. Now he ran them under the heading "Debates in the Senate of Lilliput." He attributed speeches to Liliputian leaders whose fanciful names readers would have easily deciphered. Readers were most amused, and the magazine's renown and circulation rose.
            Cave's most scandalous moment came in 1738. He dared to publish remarks King George II had sent to Parliament. The problem was he ran them before MPs heard them. The House of Commons denounced Cave, passing a resolution advising him of its "high indignation."
            An even more chilling moment came when Cave dared run articles about the trial of Simon Fraser who had conspired to return England to Roman Catholic rule. Convicted of treason, he was the last man to be beheaded in England. As a result of his magazine's reporting, Cave not only paid a fine but had to beg forgiveness on his knees.
            Scholars say Cave's magazine was remarkably fair in its coverage of controversial events. After all, Cave wanted as many cash-paying readers as he could get, and experience had taught him to be wary of upsetting the powers that be, except when covering juicy treason trials and tidbits from the King.
            His coverage of the colonies (and their grievances) was thorough and sympathetic. For this, Americans may thank Cave's fellow publisher Ben Franklin. They were friends, and in 1741 Franklin started his own magazine 'The General Magazine and Historical Chronicle,' though it only lasted for six monthly issues.
            Cave reported on Franklin's experiments with lightning rods and published his pamphlet "Experiments and Observations in Electricity." He put a lightning road on top of his London office building, a fitting place for such a courageous publication. And when lightning struck it, sure enough Cave published an article about it.


MORAL: Ready, fire, aim.

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Thursday, September 28, 2017

The Czar from Texas

“Your responsibility is to solve your problems.”


“The Texan Who Conquered Russia.” That’s how Time Magazine described Van Cliburn. Its 1958 cover story raved that he was Elvis, Liberace, and violinist Vladimir Horowitz all rolled into one. Not to be outdone, Variety dubbed him “a musical Lindbergh.”
This lone eagle of the keyboard competed against 49 other pianists from 19 nations, flying away with first-place honors at Moscow’s International Tchaikovsky Competition. At six-foot four, Cliburn wasn't just lanky, he was downright gawky. Baby faced, too. He was all of 23 years old—and terribly shy. His only weapon—The intense (and romantic) way he attacked the keyboard.
His mother Rildia began teaching him when he was about three or four. (She had studied under a man who had been taught by Lizst.) Why so young? She caught him at the keyboard imitating one of her students.
            His talent quickly became so evident his parents built him a practice studio attached to the garage of their Kilgore, Texas, home.
            At the age of nine or 10, his mother wanted him to play the Transcendental Etudes of Lizst. He balked, saying, “I can’t play this because I don’t have perfect hands like you.”
            He always remembered his mother’s stern reply: “No one has perfect hands! Everyone has problems. Your responsibility is to solve your problems.”
            He must have listened to her. Cliburn first performed with the Houston Symphony when he was 12. When he was 13, he placed first a statewide competition.

Right place, right time

            The legendary Julliard School offered him a scholarship, but he was too much of a mama’s boy to go to Manhattan. He would take lessons from her and no one else. Only after graduating from high school did he make the leap to the big city.
            In 1954 he won the prestigious Leventritt Award. It had gone un-awarded for the three preceding years. No contestant had sufficiently impressed the judges. Cliburn did, and his victory won him debut performances with five top U.S. orchestras. His signature piece? Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1.
So when the Moscow competition rolled around in 1958, “Cliburn was the right man, at the right place, in the right moment,” said one writer. 
But the fix was definitely in. The grand prize was to have gone to a Russian. After all, this was a Tchaikovsky competition. The Ministry of Culture had told the Kremlin’s new boss Nikita Khrushchev that a son of the motherland would obviously capture the honor.
 It would be yet another inspiring victory for communism. Months earlier the Soviet Union had sorely bruised America’s self-confidence when it successfully orbited Sputnik, the world’s first artificial satellite.
But when the competition left outer space and hit the concert stage, things didn’t go as the commissars hoped. Russian music lovers went ga-ga. There was something about Cliburn’s passion that touched their Slavic souls. What’s more, teenage Russian girls adored Cliburn and his bouffant hairdo the way American teens would later react to John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Yes, they fainted and wept when he performed.
As the young gentleman from Texas advanced from round to round of the competition, he found himself besieged by bouquets of flowers and stacks of fan mail from admirers.
Russian girls called him “Cleeburn.” Strangers stopped him on the sidewalk to hug him. The New York Times’ Moscow correspondent Max Frankel covered the competition and wrote that "especially the young girls were going absolutely crazy about Van's performances, heaping flowers on him."


When he finished performing the night of the first round of competition, the Russian audience was so overwhelmed it thundered, “First! First prize!” The night of the finals his standing ovation lasted eight minutes. The vote of the judges—unanimous.
Clearly, Muscovites wanted the American to win, but would the Kremlin permit that? Fearful of the regime’s response if Cliburn took first prize, the judges asked Khrushchev for permission to honor to him.
 “Is the American really the best?” Khrushchev asked. When told that he was, the dictator replied, “So you have to give him the prize!”
At a reception at few days later, Khrushchev threw his arms around Cliburn. After the heartiest of Russian bear hugs, he asked, “Why are you so tall?”         
“Because I am from Texas,” he replied. “I guess because my father gave me so many vitamins."

A transcendental force

On his return, New York City feted him with a ticker-tape parade. More than 100,000 people lined Broadway to welcome home the conquering keyboard king. It was the only time the city has given a musician such an honor.
When he went on tour around the U.S., he caused riots. Fans in Philadelphia tore door handles off his limo. One local branch of an Elvis Fan Club even changed its name to the Van Cliburn Fan Club.
His album showcasing his award-winning piano concerto dueled with Elvis and the soundtrack from My Fair Lady for the top spot on the charts. It became the first classical album to sell more than a million copies.
"In 1958, he proved to the world that music is a transcendental force that goes beyond political boundaries and cultural boundaries and unifies mankind. He was a very concrete example of that," said Veda Kaplinsky, the head of Julliard’s piano department.
Besides having the courage to go into the heart of mother Russia to represent America, Cliburn, being the polite young man that he was, also said nice things about America’s rival, at a time when it was unthinkable to do so.
“The only thing that the Russians want from the Americans,” Cliburn remarked, “is to meet them in an atmosphere of friendship, sincerity and mutual understanding.”
That was enough to for FBI director J. Edgar Hoover to start a file on him. It also didn’t help that Cliburn also said, You can’t love music enough to want to play it without other kids thinking you’re queer or something.”
In later years, Cliburn and his partner led a quiet life out of the spotlight. Though he became wealthy from his performances and recordings, his career never ascended higher than it did at its outset.
A lifelong Christian, he regularly attended church and typically slipped in just before the service began, taking a seat in the back row. Towards the end of his life, he told his minister "one of the most profound truths that has characterized my life is St. Paul's advice to 'pray without ceasing,'
"That's how I have lived my life."


MORAL: Stay keyed up.

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