Anna Gustafsson at JSTOR Daily:
The Peloponnesian War ended in 404 BCE with Athens’s devastating loss. Its once heralded naval fleet was largely destroyed. Plague and defeat on the battlefield had killed more than a quarter of its people. Conflicts and epidemics had left the Athenian economy in shambles. Restoring prosperity required lasting peace, but asking the proud Athenians to lay down swords after humiliation was a political gamble. They needed a more straightforward approach to ending aggression.
After decades of war, the Athenians decided peace would no longer be an abstraction. Instead, it would be personified as a deity, the goddess Eirene, and worshipped as such. To be clear, religion in ancient Greece was not “faith” in the way we understand it today. It did not necessarily guide individual’s private thoughts or provide a moral compass. Instead, it was deeply embedded in public life. Practicing religion was a social and civic duty, aimed at maintaining harmony between mortals and the divine. Religious acts such as prayers, libations, and dedication of votive offerings were typically performed at public shrines and altars. These were visible, communal gestures, often tied to festivals, civic events, or transitions in life, such as marriage, war, or death.
more here.
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It was just the type of document I was hoping to find.
It’s often been observed that taking full advantage of AI will require changing work practices, just as taking full advantage of electric motors in manufacturing required changing the way factories were laid out. But what will those changes look like? Early answers are starting to emerge, coming (unsurprisingly) from the field of software development. Interestingly, the biggest impacts may not be cost savings!
S.N.S. Sastry’s 1967 documentary film I Am 20 opens with the whistle of a train and the words of T. N. Subramanian, a loquacious young man with a book of chemistry in front. In a nearly 20-minute film documenting the reflections, hopes, and fears of 20-year-old Indians regarding the equally old Indian republic, Subramanian begins with confessing his ambition, much like Mohandas Gandhi who had returned from South Africa, to “go through this country top to bottom” with “a pad and paper, a tape recorder, and a camera… seeing all kinds of people… their anguish and their anger, the fertile soil, the pastures, everything! So that one day when I could come back, I could open the book and remind myself of what I am part of and what is part of me.”
The artist’s astounding success was by no means predictable when he started out. History painting, the highest of the classical painterly genres as defined by the Royal Academy’s founders, was a distant memory by the 1980s, when the revival of figurative painting and tired Expressionist formulas on both sides of the Atlantic inspired the passionate critiques of Benjamin H. D. Buchloh and his October compatriots. In his well-argued catalogue essay, Godfrey reckons with his own earlier skepticism of figuration, including Marshall’s. As he describes, a visit to the painter’s Chicago studio in 2012 instigated a process of internal interrogation. He came to believe that history painting—if refreshed by new techniques—would speak more directly to audiences, including viewers not typically drawn to museums, than the conceptualist formulas of a prior generation, embracing a position he ascribes to Marshall himself: “As [Marshall] knew, figurative paintings in museums attracted a large audience of experts, first-timers, tourists and schoolchildren, far broader than the niche audience for the lens- and text-based artworks I revered then.” The crowds of teenagers and children listening raptly to the lectures of identical-looking docents in the back-to-back galleries in Untitled (Underpainting), 2018, imagine an art world infinitely more inclusive than the one Marshall entered as a young artist.