More about Burnt Toast

Burnt Toast Studio began as a print-making studio in 2000, formed by five friends who met at the Alberta College of Art and Design in the mid 1990s. Since then they've branched out to include other disciplines: screenprinting, etching, relief, mixed media, papermaking, painting, drawing and sculpture. There are more than a dozen members, and the studio holds an impressive array of printing and artmaking equipment, including a printing press that they had designed and manufactured locally. There's a lot of fantastic artists working at Burnt Toast, check them out, and check out some more pictures of Alden's screen printing process and some shots from around the studio here

Sled Island Posters

One of the highlights of Calgary summers in recent years has been the fantastic Sled Island festival. This year's favorite include hometown girl Feist, The Hold Steady, Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks, Andrew WK, and dozens of others. It's not a typical music festival that takes place in a single park or venue, but rather spreads out over dozens of venues throughout the city, and is not only a music festival, but involves a film and visual arts component as well.

Part of that visual component is a poster show, where talented local artists design gig posters for some of the headline acts, which are then silk-screened by local printers. One of those printers is friend of UPPERCASE Alden Alfon

Here's Alden printing the Andrew WK poster at Burnt Toast Studio, by illustrator Abby Fong. 

 

 

Woodcut

Hemlock 82, 2008The word 'woodcut' typically refers creating images by chiseling our gouging a relief into a wood surface and then printing the results. Bryan Nash Gill's work takes the word in a different direction; he makes relief prints from cross-sections of trees. Rather than using the wood as a medium for a carved image, he tries to capture the tree itself. Good portraiture is limited in its frame but expansive in its impact. Here, Gill has found a wonderful form of portraiture for trees, where the simple patterns of rings and texture are captured, while other traditional boreal imagery like the vertical shapes and warm hues are only implied. Gill's work starkly captures age, growth patterns, rot and other abnormalities that tell a tree's stories. He doesn't simply work with whole crosscut trees, but dimensional lumber, plywood, telephone poles... any wood he can find that tells a story or creates an interesting image. 

This book from Princeton Architectural Press presents a fantastic retrospective of Gill's woodcut work. This represents only a segment of the work that Gill does - his sculpture and installation work, for example, is not show here. While the images alone are nice, I really enjoyed the text as well, with little blurbs telling what makes a specimen unique, where he found it, or what challenges the piece provided the artist. As well, Gill also extensively documents his creative process. My only quibble is that I would have liked to see more of his studio... Of course at UPPERCASE were suckers for seeing an artist's studio, and here there's only one grainy photo of what looks to be an absolutely stunning workspace. 

Ornitholego Society

Gloria GoldfinchBritish bird and LEGO enthusiast Thomas Poulsom created a series of gorgeous local birds in LEGO blocks. Pictured here is Gloria Goldfinch, but he's also done a puffin, a woodpecker, a kingfisher, a robin, and a blue tit. 

Thanks to the LEGO site Cuusoo, amateur designs like this actually have a chance of being made into official LEGO products, if they get 10,000 supporters on the site. Poulsom's birds still have a very long way to go, but they are very deserving with their lovely simplicity. 

via Make.

Landscape Music

Red Maple (1914), by A.Y. Jackson

Weather imagery is also a great way for songwriters to tap into a sense of place. Growing up listening to a lot of Canadian music, I enjoyed the way that the music I listened to reflected the world I lived in through subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) ways. The weather (and particularly cold, northern weather) is a theme that runs through many elements of Canadian art, from literature to music to visual art. Songwriters like Gordon Lightfoot (who received a couple spots in the previously-mentioned Weather Channel tournament) and Joni Mitchell helped reinforce this element of Canadian identity. 

(Again, and I cannot emphasize this enough, Ice Ice Baby does not count as Canadian weather music!)

Going through my music collection, one of my favorite Canadian weather metaphors is from Blue Rodeo, who conclude Hasn't Hit Me Yet with the following lyrics: I stand transfixed / Before this streetlight / Watching the snow fall / On this cold December night  / And out in the middle of Lake Ontario / The same snow is falling / On the deep silent water / The great dark wonder / Into the waves of my heart.

However, there's another band and project that deserves special mention: In the early 1990s, the National Gallery of Canada commissioned the indie-rock band The Rheostatics to write music to accompany a retrospective of paintings by the Group of Seven. (For non-Canadians, these were a group of painters who focused primarily on landscape painting in the 1920s and 1930s.) The music that they wrote does an excellent job at evoking that nationalist imagery.  

The CBC produced a very good program on the making of this project. 

 

 

Weather Music

Weather is a powerful muse in a number of ways, and when it comes to music, it seems to fall into four categories: songs that evoke weather or seasons, but does not mention them directly; songs that uses weather as a metaphor for the themes of the song; songs that use weather as part of the background of a story of scene; and lastly, songs that are simply about the weather. 

 

 

Earlier this year, the Weather Channel had a tournament, NCAA style, matching 64 weather-themed songs against one-another to determine a weather music champion. Readers voted on songs in head-to-head matchups, and after 63-such matchups, The Beatles Here Comes the Sun was crowned champion. While the reader-voted aspect of the competition was always going to favour mainstream classics (like other contenders Over the Rainbow, Singin' in the Rain, and White Christmas), it's a little disappointing that more contemporary music wasn't featured, even in the early rounds. I think U2's Beautiful Day and Adele's Set Fire to the Rain are the only pieces from the last decade featured. One can also question whether some of the songs are really songs about weather. Is Ice Ice Baby a 'weather' song in any sense of the word? I'll save you the trouble of googling the lyrics: it's not. 

So, with the weather channel having taken care of the mainstream selections, what are your favorite underrated weather-themed music? 

I think one could probably identify an entire bracket of 64 Tom Waits songs that feature weather imagery in one way or another, with the comic musings of Emotional Weather Report (with tornado watches issued shortly before noon Sunday, for the areas including the western region of my mental health and the northern portions of my ability to deal rationally with my disconcerted precarious emotional situation); and the simple observations of Strange Weather (All over the world / It's the same / Strangers talk only of the weather) being a couple top contenders.

 

 

So, share some of your favorites in the comments!

What the weather does to us

An article by Jonathan Shipley in Issue 13 explores how the climate around Seattle has influenced the art community of that city. He links the insular, self-reflective spirit of the arts community there to the famed damp and dreary weather of the Pacific Northwest. 

Driving out onto the prairies from my home of Calgary today, I was thinking back on Shipley's piece and contemplating how weather shapes Calgary's arts. It's a question that anyone can ask of their own town. Despite the wet conditions that I was driving through, Calgary boasts itself to be the sunniest city in Canada or North America, depending on who you ask. (Environment Canada lists it has having the most sunny days in Canada, at 333.) The other weather phenomenon that we lay claim to is the similarly cheerful chinook: a foehn wind (you can look it up in your Issue 13 abecedary!) that can warm the chilliest winter days by fifteen or twenty degrees. 

When I think about how that shapes Calgary's artistic identity, the one thought I keep coming back to is just how gosh darn hard it is to be a curmudgeon here. The coldest days of the year are bright and clear, and a chinook may be just around the corner. Summer is short, but filled with days so perfect that even the sun lingers long past any civilized bedtime. One can't even become cynical about the sunniness, in the way that one might in more tropical climes. Trying to characterize the spirit of an entire community is always difficult, but I do feel like we have far more optimists than cynics. Within the city as a whole, the cultural community can feel a little bit neglected, but at the same time there's often genuine, heartfelt belief that the city is on the cusp of a sea-change in terms of its awareness of local culture, and thus our role within our city. That's not to say there's no cynicism—about self, about the community, about life in general, but I always feel like there's a bit of an optimist's streak underlying so much of the creative work that's done in the city. 

So now I'll put the question out to you: how does the weather of your city affect the artistic community and the work that's done there? 

Cover colours

With Janine in London this week, Finley, Percy and I were making our own modest trip out to my parents' farm, about an hour from Calgary. Along the way, I couldn't help noticing that the colours were very reminiscent of Eloise Renouf's cover of Issue 13: a heavy grey sky, silver of granaries and shimmering asphalt, yellow fields and road markings. And I thought to myself that if Janine were along on the trip, she would likely take a bunch of photos and then do a blog post about the colours.

 

Wilson Primes

One last post related to the number 13. 

English mathematician John Wilson (1741-1793) developed a theorem for identifying prime numbers (numbers that can be divided only by one and itself). You can play along and try this yourself: 

  1. Start with any natural (whole, positive) number. (Let's say 7.)
  2. Multiply together every number less than your starting number. (If the number you picked was 7, then multiply together 6*5*4*3*2*1, which equals 720.)
  3. Add 1 (totalling 721.)
  4. Divide by the original number (721 divided by 7.)
  5. If the result is a natural number, then the original number that you started with is a prime number. (In our example, we end up with the natural number 103, meaning 7 is a prime number.)

Neat, right? Wilson also identified a special kind of number, where the result was divided not by the original number, but by the square root of the original number. So instead, do the following:

  1. Start with any natural number.
  2. Multiply together every number less than your starting number. 
  3. Add 1.
  4. Divide by the square root of the original number.
  5. If the result is a natural number, then the original number that you started with is a Wilson Prime number. 

Wilson himself could find only two numbers that fit this condition: 5 and 13. For more than 150 years, nobody found any additional Wilson Primes. It did involve, afterall, multiplying together at least hundreds of numbers, and even the mathematicians probably had better things to do. Then, in the 1950s, the idea of using computers to search for significant numbers came along. In 1953, Karl Goldberg used this technique to find a third Wilson Prime: 563. 

Since then, computer processing power has increased rapidly, and in particular, distributed computing methods are perfect for these sort of tasks. The search for Wilson Prime Numbers has now passed the number 400,000,000. No additional Wilson Primes have been found. It's impossible to say when the next Wilson Prime will be found. It could be next week, or it may not happen in our lifetimes. 

In theory, the number of Wilson Primes should be infinite, and the fact that they're so rare doesn't change this theory at all. It's sort of a staggering idea, that something can be so rare, and yet infinite, at the same time. Its inclusion in this series is one of the reasons I've got a new-found admiration for the number 13. 

And speaking of leap years...

There's another connection between the number 13 and leap years. Many ancient calendars that attempted to combine lunar and solar calendars required 13 months. Often, this was a intercalary, or leap month that did not occur every year. Without such a leap month, calendars would gradually fall out of sync with the seasons. 

One calendar that famously suffered from this issue was the Mayan solar calendar. This calendar consisted of 18 months of 20 days each, plus five extra days, making it a 365 day calendar, with no leap day or leap month. You may be thinking, 'Hey, I know that!' because you've seen a quote that was popping up on Facebook and social media in the last couple months:

There have been about 514 Leap Years since Caesar created it in 45 B.C.. Without the extra day every 4 years, today would be around July 28, 2013.

Also, the Mayan calendar did not account for leap year... so technically the world should have ended 7 months ago.

This amusing little factoid is quite false. The Mayans had three different calendars: their solar calendar, which was subject to shifting against the seasons as a result of the lack of a leap day; a religious calendar that had years of 260 days; and a long-count calendar, that was a purely mathematical counting system. This last counting system - not the solar calendar - is the one that purportedly calculates December 21st as being the end of the world. 

This might be a good place to say to yourself, "huh, that's interesting," and stop reading. Because to go into detail about this long-count calendar requires a little bit of math, and the only reward I can promise you is a couple more interesting occurances of the number 13. Although you'll no doubt be hearing a lot more about the Mayan calendar as we draw close to December 21st, so you might as well hear it now. 

In the western world, we almost universally use a base 10 counting system. That means our system of digits is based around multiple of 10: 100, 1,000, 10,000 etc. The Mayans used a base 20 counting system, meaning that their digits were based around the numbers of 20, 400, 8,000, 160,000, etc. However, for tracking dates, they used a modified base counting system where the second unit went to 18. In the same way that we have 365 days in a year, 10 years in a decade, 10 decades in a century, and 10 centuries in a millenium, the Mayans had 20 days in a uinal, 18 uinal in a tun, 20 tun in a kactun, 20 kactun in a bactun, and 20 bactun in a pictun. (It goes on for several more units, but those are irrelevant to the discussion.)

When you multiply it all out, a bactun is equivelent to roughly 394 years. We are approaching the end of the 13th bactun (see, I told you we'd get back to 13), since the Mayan mythological creation date. Leap years have no impact on this counting system, because it's simply math. 

Here's a handy site you can use to calculate dates on a wide range of calendars, both ancient and modern, but this representation of the different mayan calendar is beautiful to watch.

Of course, there's little or nothing to suggest that the Mayans thought that the end of a bactun had any sort of cosmic significance. However, it's a more commonly cited idea that the Mayans believed that the universe was destroyed and recreated at the end of every pictun. The current pictun ends on Thursday, October 12, 4772. So it's nothing we'll need to worry about. However, the mathematically paranoid would note that this means that this means the next universe will begin on a Friday the 13th. 

Looking ahead to Friday the 13th

Tomorrow is Friday the 13th, and we talk a little bit about the lore of that number in our own Issue 13. But today is a great day to delve a little bit deeper into the math behind the number. A good place to start is with Friday the 13th itself. Here's a question with an obvious answer: how common is Friday the 13th? That obvious answer is that on average, it should occur on average every seven months. Afterall, there are seven days of the week, so there's a one-in-seven chance that the 13th will fall on a Friday, right? And a one-in-seven chance for every other day, right?

Well, actually that obvious answer is wrong.

Over the course of any 400 year period, Friday the 13th will occure 688 times, while Saturday the 13th will occur only 684 times. This means that Friday the 13th occurs, on average, every 6.97 months. Infact, the 13th day of a month falls on a Friday more than any other day of the week. The math is a bit confusing, but in short, it's due to the magic of leap years. 

Reading the weather

Several types of divination are related to the observation of weather:

Aeromancy includes several types of air-related divinations, and was one of seven forbidden types of magic in renaissance Europe. Aeromancy had several subtypes, austromancy (wind divination) and ceraunoscopy (thunder and lightning divination).

Solarmancy: divination based on the sun.

Hydatomancy: divination based on rainwater. 

Nephomancy: divination based on cloud formations.

What's your method?

There are seemingly countless forms of divination, which are, for the most part divided into omens (which are the observation of various phenomenon), sortilege (which requires the casting or drawing of something and then the interpreting the results), and augury, which refers specifically to studying bird flight patterns, but can also include a wide range of other testable occurrences. 

When you review the range of divination that have been documented through human history, the creativity behind them is quite staggering. Wikipedia lists several hundred. Which gives us a fun exercise: invent your own form of divination, and share it in the comments section here. 

Here's mine: Lichomancy (divination with Lichens). Write a question on piece of paper and fold it in thirds. Take the paper and a rock large enough to cover it out to an undisturbed pasture or meadow, where other rocks have lichen. Place the paper under the rock. Wait twenty years. Find the rock and paper, and take it to lichomancer (person who reads lichen), and ask them to interpret the lichen in the context of your original question. Assuming the question is still relevant, and you actually find the stone, you'll have your answer. 

Turns out you should have gone to medical school!


The Master of Playing Cards

Games of chance come up on a few occasions in issue 13 (such as Lisa Congdon's collection of ephemera or my own article on fortunes). In 15th century Europe, printers could rely on two products for which there was always a market: Bibles and playing cards. Those two things have over their history been very much at odds, but early printers such as Johannes Gutenberg relied on both for their income. And they often used the same engravers to illustrate both their Bibles and playing cards. 

One of the most intriguing characters in the history of games of chance is an enigmatic engraver known as The Master of Playing Cards. He was a contemporary of Gutenberg, and it's speculated that he contributed engravings both to Gutenberg's Bible, as well as the Giant Bible of Mainz, although it's always difficult to determine exactly where one master's work ends and his pupil's or rival's work begins. But his playing cards are well-recognized. 

At the time, decks with five suits were most popular in Germany. Suits were not formalized, as hearts, diamonds, clubs and spades are today. Different decks would include different suits: Flowers, Birds, Bears, Lions, Wildmen, Ladies, and Frogs are some of the different suits that appeared in cards of the era. In some instances, his cards were made with a single plate; on other cards, each figure was on a seperate plate, so that different combinations could be recombined for different cards (not unlike how Gutenberg was using movable type at the time). 

Other cartographic errors

Cartographic vandalism is actually quite rare. Most of the errors on maps are honest errors, but because of the way that cartographers would borrow from other maps, one cartographer's error can end up in other maps for centuries. One famous example is California as an island; maps from the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries frequently depicted California and the Baja Peninsula as an island. Gerardus Mercator got it right with his world map of 1569, yet maps depicting California as an island became the norm through much of the 1600s. The problem was so controversial that eventually Ferdinand VII of Spain stepped in and decreed that it was not an island.

Mercator might have gotten California right, but he was way off regarding another island. Early cartographers needed to look everywhere for their sources, and when mapping the North Atlantic, Mercator turned to Inventio Fortuna, an account of a Franciscan monk's travels in the North Atlantic. Or rather, he turned to second-hand accounts, as the original manuscript had been lost a century earlier, and all that remained were secondhand accounts of it. As Mercator describes it:

"...In the midst of the four countries is a Whirlpool into which there empty these four Indrawing Seas which divide the North. And the water rushes round and descends into the earth just as if one were pouring it through a filter funnel. It is 4 degrees wide on every side of the Pole, that is to say eight degrees altogther. Except that right under the Pole there lies a bare rock in the midst of the Sea. Its circumference is almost 33 French miles, and it is all of magnetic stone. And is as high as the clouds, so the Priest said, who had received the astrolabe from this Minorite in exchange for a Testament. And the Minorite himself had heard that one can see all round it from the Sea, and that it is black and glistening. And nothing grows thereon, for there is not so much as a handful of soil on it."

Part of the reason these errors are so fascinating is that it's entertaining to imagine a world just subtely different from our own. Jules Verne thought so too, and in his novel The Adventures of Captain Hatteres, he tells the story of a British explorer who travels to the north pole and encounters there a vast polar sea, and at the center of it a volcano, much like the Rupes Nigra that appeared on earlier maps. 

Vandals

One of my favorite ideas that came up in the abecedary was cartographic vandalism: when a cartographer intentionally puts an error on a map. A famous example of this is the non-existant Mount Richard, near Boulder, Colorado; the mountain is generally attributed to cartographer Richard Ciacci.

But my favorite instance of cartographic vandalism surrounds two islands in Lake Superior. These islands – Isle Pontchartrain  and Isle Philippaux – were of some strategic importance, and their ownership was debated at the Treat of Paris in 1783. Eventually, the decision was made that the border between the US and the British Colonies would put Isle Pontchartrain and Ilse Philippaux on US territory.

However, nearly a half century later when surveyors went to the region, they could find no trace of the islands, and eventually had to conclude that these islands didn’t exist. Such errors aren’t all that uncommon, except that the islands’ names suggest that this was no accident: French explorers named the islands after Louis Phelypeaux, comte de Pontchartrain, who was the government minister responsible for their funding. Possibly this was a late addition to a map, inserted to attempt to gain favour or more funding. 

Straight borders and jagged ones

Doing the abecedary about maps for issue 12 was a lot of fun for me, because maps were a huge part of my childhood, from collecting all the National Geographic insert maps, to creating my own worlds and rendering them on grid paper using various types of projection systems.  One of my favorite aspects of maps is that the simple lines often have so much hidden information. For example, the unmistakable lines of a fjord-filled coastline tell not only where, exactly, water meets land, but also the mountainous geography of the surrounding land. This extends to political boundaries as well.  When I wrote my first novel, I set it on the Alberta / Saskatchewan border... an unremarkable, straight border that runs down the 110th meridian. Saskatchewan is a near perfect rectangle of a province, and Alberta would be as well, were it not for its southwest corner that follows the continental divide. The juxtaposition of straight lines and jagged in political boundaries has always been curious to me, and two of my characters discuss this in the following passage:

“So what, you in Saskatchewan don’t care about the border?” Hugh says when Tina moves on to a customer at the till.
“Not this border, it’s meaningless. Not everyone knows it’s meaningless, but nobody ever treats it seriously.”
“It’s not meaningless.”
“Of course it is,” Fish says, adding cream to his coffee again. “No straight line border means anything, except in raw politics. How many straight line borders are there in Europe? How many straight edges does Switzerland have, or France or Russia?”
“Well, Canada has a lot.” Hugh tries to visualize maps of the world in his mind. “Countries in Africa have them, and in the Middle East, right?”
“Exactly. But back to Europe for a moment: the reason there are no straight lines is because the borders mean something. They follow rivers or mountain ranges, and in some cases they’ve existed since before there were any real maps. You cross from one country to the next, and it’s there, it’s in the land, it’s been in the land forever. Or in some cases, it’s because of the people on either side of the border, they fought and they pushed and pulled at the border, and over the years it’s come to perfectly differentiate between one group of people and the other. The people define the border, not the other way around.”
“Yeah,” Hugh nods. What Fish is saying is starting to make sense. “You know, I was up on the water tower the other night—”
“Oh, tell me you didn’t take Joan up there.” He doesn’t wait for Hugh’s response; he knows. “That’s so high school. So sixteen. Man, I haven’t been up there in a decade. What were you thinking? You got head, right?”
“Forget it.”
“No, I’m sorry. Seriously, go ahead.”
“Well I was up there, and I was just looking at how the border is so invisible, other than when it’s in town and there’s Main Street. But I spend so much time working with my map, I forget that, sometimes. But out there’s it’s just like any section line.”
Fish nods. “Look at the American border. They did a good job with the eastern part, that’s a real border. But then they got past the Great Lakes, and they got lazy. It doesn’t matter whether it’s at the forty-ninth or at 54-40, any time the map-maker gets out a straight edge, you have a big problem. Real borders follow the land. Now, we’ve got a new, false geography. At some point, all the cartographers got replaced by politicians. Look at your southwest border, with BC.”
“Right, it follows the continental divide.”
“It means something. It means everything to the water—two drops can fall side-by-side, and end up thousands of miles apart depending on which side of the mountain peak they fall on. It means something to the wind, it means something to the animals. It probably meant something to the Indians too, when they were still nomadic.”
Fish stops long enough to take a sip of coffee.
“Did you write an essay on this in school?”
“No, but I’ve thought about it a lot. And you mentioned Africa and the Middle East. All the borders were made up thousands of miles away by people who had never been there. The borders, though, they mean as much to me as they do to the animals. You Albertans and your separatism, I’ll never get it.”