ONE IMPORTANT ASPECT OF 20th-century modernism, from the first decade of the century until the ’30s, was its irrepressible optimism for what we now call the “developed” world. Unbounded adulation was bestowed on the discoveries and new technologies in science, medicine, engineering and transportation, founded on the hope of a brighter future—a physical regeneration of the environment and the commensurate spiritual rebirth of mankind. Such enthusiasm, especially that of the politically disenchanted, was vested in the liberating potential of scientific and technological achievement. This state of mind was, on the surface at least, the very antithesis of the fin de siècle forebodings of a Symbolist-dominated art and literature which recoiled from the ugliness and stupidity of the modern world, embracing in its place the domains of fantasy and the dream.
But after the chiliastic mood of a gloomy decade, the arrival of the 20th century seemed to mark a new, perhaps even desperate hopefulness which, in view of current artistic ideologies, was likely to manifest itself in extravagant and unheard-of ways. It comes as no surprise that a startling imagery should emerge, its philosophical foundations rooted in scientific theory, its form in the visual recordings of experimental science.
As art was looking more toward science, science itself was becoming to the layman more poetic and entering into a mysterious realm of abstraction. Einstein’s Theory of Relativity was first described in 1905; Minkovski’s explanation of the space-time continuum was given a few years later. Artists could reconcile science with the already enshrined precepts of post-Impressionists and Symbolists such as Gauguin and Redon about a metaphysical reality and the unseen world.
One way in which artists early in this century signalled their rapport with science was to concern themselves—as contemporary science was itself concerned—with questions of time, space and motion. These subjects were prefigured most compellingly in the photographs of the physiologist E. J. Marey (1830–1904). Here was an exotic imagery at once both verifiable and incredible—the individual or object of greatly elongated form, extended in time. Much of Marey’s imagery was in essence a palimpsest, and not simply sequential in form. Marey’s chronophotography transcended perceivable truths far more than the consecutive series images produced by Muybridge, while at the same time being more accurate in its specific measurements of each alteration in the spectrum of human and animal locomotion. Such new truths as Marey’s, especially as they were based on a machine, had an immense appeal for artists of a mind to be modern. Moreover, those images honored a venerable tradition of objectivity in art while also engaging the subjective consciousness through its mysterious and apparently inexplicable results.
However instructive Marey’s chronophotographs were to scientists, and they had great relevance for physiologists, biologists and aerodynamic engineers, their greatest value resided in the extraordinary character of the imagery itself. The influence Marey’s work had on art cannot simply be measured by the specific visual references made to chronophotography, but like the influence of science itself, it must be estimated by the powerful, though intangible, hold such photographic images exerted generally on the artistic imagination.
Uneventful by contemporary standards, Marey’s life was a paradigm of the successful scientist. A doctor from Beaune, a Burgundian town, Marey’s most significant attribute was his remarkable talent for medical engineering. Between 1858 (when he invented the cardiograph) and 1892, when he perfected what is universally considered to be one of the true precursors of the modern cinematic projector, he accounted for a large number of devices, and for modifications of earlier ones, which became widely used in the precise measuring of respiration, pulse rate and blood pressure, of bodily heat and muscular contraction. At the same time, Marey devoted himself to studies in aerial locomotion, more specifically to the investigation of external muscular movement of birds in flight. With a modest attitude but superb intelligence, the doctor from Beaune became absorbed in investigations which ultimately were to impinge On areas of research far removed from his own physiological investigations.
I am especially concerned here with the studies he made with the photographic camera, and particularly the distinction between the different species of images he produced. Of all Marey’s inventions, chronophotography was destined to make obsolete the often cumbersome mechanical equipment (including his own) used in physiological studies. The accuracy of the photographic record, by itself or coupled with other instruments, not only gave great impetus to such studies, but inevitably Complemented research in the fields of ballistics, aero- and hydrodynamics, microbiology, bacteriology, crystallography, hydraulics, military and naval engineering, botany, cytology and even psychology, this last in its probings into hysteria and catalepsy. For pathologists in the study of paralysis, muscular atrophy and other neurological diseases, chronophotography proved indispensable.
As for artists disposed to discover in the compelling idiosyncracies of chronophotographic form the elements of a modern, technologized vocabulary of visual signs, Marey’s striking images were immensely appropriate. Those forms, playing around the peripheries of abstraction, gave graphic expression to the somewhat intangible concept of the relativity of time and space. Freely exploited by popular illustrators in the last two decades of the 19th century, characteristic elements of chronophotographic imagery soon became part of an artistic language which has not yet been eclipsed, and is today, after 80 years, quite as pertinent as it has ever been and susceptible to even greater exploration. Such images, far more than being merely descriptive or graphic measurements, abound in expressionistic chimera which transmit much of the magic of physiological fantasy and the dream-world: levitation, auto-genesis, matter decomposed.
Earlier equipment employing mechanical means to record movement, pressure, sound and other vibrations, heat and changes in volume was not entirely superseded by chronophotography. Chronophotography was in different degrees inadequate for measuring such phenomena as variable pressures, force, temperature, changes of electric “tension.” But that method, utilized in conjunction with other, mechanical, ones and as a check on them, enhanced scientific investigation in several fields to a considerable degree.
Other scientists than Marey, it ought to be said, were aware of the potential usefulness of photography: Sir Francis Galton comments on this in the Revue Scientifique, 13 July 1878 and again in September 1879. Pierre Jules Janssen in 1873–4 used a photographic “gun” as a means for ascertaining the precise sequential phases in the movement of celestial bodies. Two medical men, Onimus and Martin, used photography in 1865 to study the cyclical changes in the heart structure of living animals; another, Stein, for the general study of physiological movement. Marey refers to all of them, modestly allowing that his invention of chronophotography was based on ideas already considered by other scientists. Marey’s own photographic gun, one of the first of his chronophotographic instruments, was patterned directly on the “astronomical revolver” employed by Janssen in 1874 to register the passage of the planet Venus across the solar disc. Indeed, Janssen suggested soon after, in the pages of the bulletin of the French Photographic Society, that his revolver might well be utilized by the physiological sciences in the study of the mechanics of locomotion.
The generation of devices for producing an animated imagery can, of course, be rolled back in time, at the very least, to Plateau’s famous phenakistiscope in the 1820s. Such cumulative interest in the animation of images led to Muybridge’s consecutive series photographs, the direct antecedents of Marey’s chronophotographs. When Muybridge visited Paris in August 1881, he presented Marey with photographs of pigeons taken sequentially at exposures of 1/500 of a second. Surprisingly, these coincided almost exactly with Marey’s earlier computations based on mechanical recording instruments such as his so-called pantographe, and they corroborated fully the scientist’s discoveries. But it is of much significance that such a corroboration was necessary, the photographic image alone having the required and absolute authority.
Marey’s “gun,” in the form of a rifle, enabled him to take on wet collodion discs 12 images (more, later) per second, each with an exposure time of 1/720 of a second. A magazine attached to the gun held 25 sensitized plates. By perforating these plates they could be viewed from behind, as were the earliest phenakistiscope discs, through the slots onto a mirror, the phases of movement merging into a full locomotive cycle. Possibly around 1882 he was shown a multiple lens camera operated by a photoelectric interval and timing device. That camera had been constructed by a colleague and later collaborator, Albert Londe. Londe, who had at the time been appointed head of the photographic section of the Salpêtrière Hospital in Paris (perhaps best known for the studies in hysteria and mesmerism by the famous Dr. Jean Martin Charcot, to whom Freud acknowledged a great debt), used sequential photography to collect visual data on the physiognomic and physiological aberrations of mental patients.
Marey distinguished between two categories of chronophotography: that incorporating multiple images on moving or revolving plates (more akin to Muybridge and sequential cinematic imagery) and that in which, on a stationary plate, succeeding images were registered and often superimposed according to the speed and spread of movement through the field of vision. Established in 1881 at the College de France’s physiological station at the Parc des Princes not far from the Longchamps race course in the Bois de Boulogne, Paris, Marey’s earliest chronophotographs (in 1882) on a single, immobile plate were made at 1/1000 of a second, each tenth of a second using an oscillating mirror (his interrupteur rotatif) to punctuate the exposure. Marey was well aware that chronophotographs on fixed plates were confusing because of the superimposition of the images; more so in those cases where the forward movement of the subject was not rapid in relation to the articulation of the limbs. Thus, in his photographs of walking men, though each segment of movement was taken each tenth of a second, inevitably superimpositions occur, esthetically pleasing perhaps but confoundingly problematical insofar as scientific analysis was concerned. Conversely, the patterns of movement in his running or other fast-moving figures were, for the reason stated, easier to gauge.
Consequently, Marey resorted to the expedient of dressing one of his models in full-length tights, with the side of the body farthest from the camera clothed in black, the rest in white and all against a black background. That facilitated to a considerable degree the subsequent analysis of the movement, the figure in time and space shown in precisely the correct positions. It was a variation of the method originally suggested by the distinguished chemist and color theorist Eugene Chevreul, and the comic effect thus achieved was of a one-legged man walking with all the physiological aplomb of a figure with the limbs intact. To increase the time intervalbetween recordings of the movement for the sake of visual clarity would have resulted in the loss of several crucial intermediary positions of the moving figure and was not, therefore, a technique to be recommended.
A further refinement in Marey’s fixed plate chrono-photography consisted in dressing the subject entirely in black, with bands of bright cloth applied along the lengths of the limbs nearest the camera and in strategic spots on the body—buttons or spangles of cloth or metal—to catch the light. The subject was then made to move against a blackened ground. In that way readymade, auto-recorded (literally) photo-graphs of oscillation patterns and trajectories were produced, greatly facilitating the analysis of each movement. Moreover, the positive image could be reversed in the print, yielding black lines on a white ground—a more convenient base on which to make written notations. Because of the greater intelligibility afforded by this method, Marey was able to increase the frequency of his exposures to 60 per second and more. Chronophotographs of the trajectories of rapidly moving objects, the paths “delineated” by small spots of light, were sometimes made at speeds as fast as 100 exposures per second. In that way, the apparently insurmountable difficulties encountered before the use of chronophotography in recording the rapidly moving wings of birds and insects were overcome to the ultimate advantage, for better or worse, of aerodynamic studies and flying machines.
Esthetically, this graphic method of Marey’s may have resulted in the forfeiting of some of the most compelling tonal aspects of full-figure chronophotography, yet its linear peculiarities, too, are echoed in art; Duchamp’s infamous multiplying nude moving down the staircase, for example, and, though well removed from . its probable source, Balla’s intriguing series of 1912–13 called Iridescent Interpenetration, and such works as Prampolini’s Mechanical Rhythms (1914). These titles themselves recall chronophotographic imagery.
In diagrammatically recording the sequential movements in the gaits of a horse, Marey again followed the suggestion of Chevreul. He used an animal with a dark coat further deepened with lampblack, while on each shoulder and leg joint was attached a small piece of white paper. Moving against a dark background, dotted trajectories of the relevant parts of the limbs were obtained by intermittent exposure on a single plate. These points of reference were later connected by lines to fill out the diagram. The resulting graphs, called “geometrical photographs” by Marey, not only helped to answer certain physiological questions concerning equestrian movement, but became, like others of their kind, the first photographically based abstracts of motion—pure signs representing the articulation of parts of animated objects. It may be mentioned that such images (if that term is allowable in the context) help to explain the cryptic remark made in the Technical Manifesto of Futurist painters (1910) that a “running” horse not only has 20 legs, but that their movements are “triangular.” What a thing to say!
Marey explored the variations of linear means made possible with chronophotography in his constructions of sheet metal and wire frames used to generate, photographically, geometric forms, techniques and images of a kind seen later in the work of Naum Gabo and Moholy-Nagy. Perhaps most startling of all was Marey’s use of an ordinary stereoscopic camera exposed for a sufficient length of time to record, by means of single light spangles on the backs of moving figures (dark suit and dark ground), the calligraphy, one might say, of a walk or a run—and this in three-dimensional illusion!
Not qualified, he said, to make any esthetic pronouncements, Marey was nevertheless certain that instantaneous photography would have a profound effect on art, though understandably his prognosis was founded on 19th-century conventions. The essence of Marey’s esthetic ideas, like Muybridge’s, was that images of moving subjects traditionally had most often been rendered in stereotyped postures which avoided any violent or exaggerated appearance, tending instead to symbolize kinetic forms in those phases of movement in or near their terminal positions. Marey was somewhat apologetic for having brought into being a species of image totally antithetical to those sanctioned by artistic convention. He suggested with a certain deference that modern artists might find in chronophotographs those phases of movement which would not appear too obtrusively a transgression of established laws of esthetics.
But a little variation on conventional configurations, he believed, would add some spice to the stereotyped norm, a concession hardly in keeping with the revolutionary aspect of his chronophotographs. Nowhere, to the best of my knowledge, did Marey leave even a clue hinting at some understanding of the special significance chronophotographic imagery was to hold for coming generations of artists, nor, I suppose, should we reasonably expect even this brilliant scientific mechanician to have executed such a profound, necessarily intuitive, jump. Ironically, Marey died in 1904, only a few years before Picasso and Braque were to produce their first Cubist canvases. These were soon followed by Duchamp, then the riotous Futurist debut into the world of art. All of them present some evidence of a response to chronophotography.
That artists might not usefully render the precise character of muscular appearance at each stage of human or animal locomotion was Marey’s most immediate and (apparently) pedestrian esthetic concern. He did not, however, mean by this to encourage merely an empty-headed imitation or blind devotion to the new facts of nature. He quite understood that as in physiognomic expression, where the most subtle articulation of the facial muscles commands our immediate and natural rapport with human emotions, the imaginative but correct artistic use of the human figure can also be a powerful vehicle for evoking nervous sensations.
This level of concern with pose and gesture was a matter of much importance to the sculptor Rodin, who, like Marey at the same time, speculated on a cumulative conception of movement in artistic imagery. Marey also wondered whether certain positions of locomotive subjects might not be especially suitable in suggesting those which would naturally follow. That idea had no doubt occupied Degas too. Now, Rodin’s views centered on how a range of movement (we could say a coalescence of time and space) might simultaneously be incorporated in a single figure. Obviously, representations of movement in terminus would deprive the image of this function. But an effective synthesis of certain intermediate phases of movement offered the means of producing an imagery which transcended, yet in away retained, most of the trappings of naturalism. These means stemmed, in part, from instantaneous photography.
Despite Marey’s promising speculations about the artistic rendering of movement, he is ambivalent and, on the whole, repeats the most commonplace idées reçues of established art. Indeed, he questions the right to represent something not readily visible to the unassisted eye when, at the same time and even earlier, other scientists, Ogden Rood, Emil Brucke, Herman von Helmholtz, as examples, were speculating on the esthetic value of optical threshold sensations. Contradictorily, Marey even recommended to artists the. use of “dead points,” those positions of momentary rest when the direction of movement is changed. They were his own choice as well. Chronophotographs like that of his lunging fencer will, he says, provide the artist with just such “positions of visibility.” Yet again Marey is ambivalent when he proposes the use of dynamic-looking intermediate phases of movement revealed by his photographs which would otherwise be completely invisible to the naked eye.
In this respect Marey believed that the larger the range of photographs from which the artist could select, the greater potential there was for original expression. He was hardly aware of just how important to art, not to mention social life itself, an unlimited choice of images, chronophotographic and otherwise, would be. For such an avalanche of photographs as had already poured down upon man was bound to bury traditional concepts not only about the reality of nature and the nature of art, but of the nature of reality itself. The possibility of establishing standards, in art at least, was destined to become increasingly remote with greater choice.
Marey and one of his assistants, Georges Demeny, succeeded, in 1891, in isolating by chronophotographic means the fractional parts of facial expression during speech. Their series of photographs set in a revolving disc shows Demeny carefully pronouncing the words “je vous aime.” These photographs were part of an investigation intended to help train deaf mutes. The experiments were meant to prove that phonetic articulation, in the form of photographs, was as communicative to those unfortunates as letter and word cards were to children learning to read and write. Marey and Demeny were aware of the peculiarities inherent in such a recording of the fragmentary part of an expression. Just as certain phases of a horse’s gallop, however truthful, belie the gait and are nondescript and have nothing of the gallop about them (a feature Degas meticulously explored), or suggest no movement at all, so also did some of the transitional stages of facial expression confound or convey contradictory meanings. In that way, isolated images of a man shouting, because of the contraction of certain muscles, had the appearance of an ugly grimace, “and yet simply to watch him there was nothing extraordinary in the man’s expression” (Marey, Movement, p. 182).
This anticipates the later propositions of Gestalt psychologists who observed that the perception of movement is not a series of fragments, but that each phase must be “seen” with the total movement in mind. Moreover, this consideration marks an important distinction between “still” and cinematic photography, giving potentially a certain psychological advantage to the former. The stop-action technique currently in favor in cinema and television clearly underlines it, though no doubt the arresting of movement in the context of the cinematic image gives it an extra piquancy. All the strangeness disappeared, said Marey, when the separate photographs of the shouting man were seen cinematically in a viewing machine.
Artists concerned with discovering new means for depicting movement, “unnatural” yet at the same time consistent with physical reality, could find no happier anthology of such forms than in Marey’s photographs and those of his assistants and followers. Marey’s earliest publications dealing with his chronophotographic experiments appear in 1882 in the reports, the comptes rendus, of the French Academy of Sciences, a source neither readily known nor easily available to most artists. But in such books as La méthode graphique (first published in 1878, the second edition, 1885, containing a section on chronophotography), Le vol des oiseaux (1890), and especially Le mouvement (1894) and La chronophotographie (1899), his work was bound to reach a larger audience, though the images themselves predominantly appeared as engravings, or worse, in those smudgy abominations which characterized early photomechanical reproduction. However, given further notoriety in the popular press and especially in the popular scientific press where, on the whole, the reproduction techniques were more effective (and in any case at the later dates when photomechanical methods had improved), Marey’s chronophotographs were likely to have made an even greater impact. Moreover, his books appeared in later editions and in other languages than French.
It is now generally accepted that comparisons can reasonably be made between chronophotographic and other related images and the works of several artists, among’ them Seurat, the Cubists, Marcel Duchamp, the Italian Futurists, Paul Klee and Max Ernst. But indirectly, I am convinced that the spirit, if not precisely the substance, of chronophotography enters into the formative concepts governing other artistic styles. The idea that objects, or fragments of objects, could move into one another, that more than one object, or facet of an object, might occupy the same space at the same time, that all matter was continually and inexorably in a state of motion, was a most attractive one for artists in the first decades of this century. These extraphysical conditions were alluded to by the term “simultaneity,” which appears repeatedly at the time in the writings of artists and critics.
This conception of reality was evocative of scientific theory which held that matter, being constituted more of voids than solids, was, at least at the level of atomic structures, interpenetrable. It was consistent also with notions of a fourth dimension. References to The Fourth Dimension among the Cubists and their supporters may have amounted to little more than artistic clichés, de rigeur in the period, intended to establish the modernity of their art. For Cubists such as Metzinger, it was a convenient peg on which to hang the larger character and meaning of his work. Nevertheless, any concern of these artists with time-space phenomena may help to elucidate for us some aspects of Cubist form. Whatever else the faceted and interpenetrating planes typical of “hermetic” Cubism may mean, visually they come extraordinarily close to some of the most characteristic features of chronophotographic form—that is to say, the transparent superimpositions with the apparent dematerialization of solid matter and ambiguity in the dimensional placement of such forms in space.
Symbolically, both Cubist form and Marey’s photographs may reasonably be interpreted as consistent in essence with the fragmentary and elusive impressions commonly experienced in the frenetic environment of the modern metropolis. It was this dimensional synthesis of movement, time and space to which artists and writers responded and which was so compellingly evoked by Marey’s chronophotography. This so-called elastic and expanding consciousness was, moreover, given added momentum in the writings and lectures in Paris of the philosopher Henri Bergson and his view of life as a “continuity of becoming,” of matter being extended in space, of memory itself gathering images “as they successively occur along the course of time”—as though he were describing a chrono-photograph.
What Marey unwittingly bequeathed to modern art was a wholely new set of visual symbols for the representation of time, space and motion; more accurately, symbols which transmitted the idea of a synthesis of these states of being. In the context of an art in which the traditional realist role was to a considerable extent usurped by photography, is it not ironic that photography, in its more extraordinary forms, should have supplied the raw material for a new pictorial vocabulary, one of whose purposes it was to declare the artist’s freedom from mimetic art and the photographic imitation of appearances?
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A note on photography and Futurism
It is highly improbable that the Futurists could have remained unaware of Marey’s work. The refusal of Boccioni, and by implication his confreres, to admit to any connection between Futurist imagery and photography is, one supposes, understandable . Yet Anton Giulio Bragaglia’s manifesto of 1911, Futurist Photodynamism,1 leaves little doubt that Marey’s reputation had at least dented the Futurist enclave. The manifesto itself, despite its grudging tone, presents us with a rich opportunity to deal in depth with the “psychological” structure, so to speak, of chronophotographic imagery. One of Bragaglia’s principal purposes in his lengthy tirade was to distinguish between chronophotographic images and those created by the Futurists; more especially his own species of multiple recorded photographs on single plates which came under the banner “Photodynamism.”
Photodynamism, says Bragaglia, “cannot be interpreted as an innovation applicable to photography in the way that chronophotography was.” He places Marey’s chronophotography and cinematography in the same category, making no assessment of the different kinds of image Marey produced, and calls chronophotography simply another form of cinematography, inferior because it subdivides movement mechanically, fragmenting the action, neglecting to synthesize it, instead of creating with it rhythmical sensations which transcend science and pertain to art. Chronophotography, insists Bragaglia, does not produce the sensation of movement, nor does it even reconstruct it: “Marey’s system, then, seizes and freezes the action in its principle stages. . . . It thus describes a theory that could be equally deduced from a series of instantaneous photographs [or even] said to belong to different subjects, since, if a fraction of a stage is removed, no link unifies the various images.”
While conceivably such an analysis might pertain to some of Marey’s photographs, it seems wilfully blind to describe them all that way. What is more surprising is that Bragaglia actually refers to Marey’s “system” being used “in the teaching of gymnastics,” which very strongly suggests that he is referring specifically either to chronophotographs taken by Marey in 1900 during an international athletic event coinciding with the Universal Exhibition in Paris that year, or to the “educative gymnastics” taken later with Marey’s equipment at the French Military School at Joinville possibly by Demeny and other colleagues of Marey after the scientist’s death. These gymnastic photographs not only convey precisely the kind of image Bragaglia favors, but in my estimation fulfill Bragaglia’s requirements for dynamic sensations even more than do his own photographs. To paraphrase him, he wants: distorted, unreal, dematerialized images evoking lyrical sensations in a rhythmical continuum.
Bragaglia is by no means antipathetic to scientific analysis. Indeed, he urges artists to study precisely the essential properties of movement, its causes and effects, thus making the proper genuflection of Futurism to science. But synthesis is all, he says, and the “infinite number of minor vibrations” of which chronophotographs are constituted are only an accumulation of successive static states lacking a feeling of continuity, extension in space and infinite multiplication—the “construction of [a] moving reality,” he calls it. Thus, he continues, in a work of art, light must act as movement, transcending the movement itself, which must consequently become dematerialized—giving it a trajectory; deforming it. All this, of course, describes rather cogently many of Marey’s photographs which do not by any means confirm Bragaglia’s assessment that in Marey’s system, like cinematography, “the viewer moves abruptly from one state to another, and thus is limited to the states that compose the movement, without concern for the intermovemental states of the action.” Photodynamism, says Bragaglia, seeks “the interior essence of things: pure movement,” and through an efficacious presentation of dynamic sensation the representation, he says, will be “pervaded by the essence of the subject.”
It goes almost without saying that the Futurists should feel compelled to reach out beyond science and explore the psychic resonances an essentially chronophotographic imagery proffered. But their unwillingness to admit any debt to Marey, despite the demonstrable direct and certainly indirect references made to his work, can only be excused by the pressures of an era in which the need to claim independence and originality rendered all influences taboo and all forebears obsolescent.
In 1891 Marey was appointed to a commission in charge of evaluating all communications related to aerostatics, then a rapidly expanding field of research. Marey himself at the time made a chronophotographic study of aerodynamics. Anticipating later wind-tunnel experiments, he shot parallel jets of smoke past different shaped obstacles simulating airfoils in various positions. The patterns of turbulence which were consequently produced rendered visible a series of strange and enchanting plumes of smoke, which may lie behind some of those curious drawings and paintings of figures in a railway station (1911) by Boccioni and which he called States of Mind: Those Who Stay and Those Who Go.
The poetic force of Marey’s images was all the more attractive to artists in this century, because in addition to evoking sensations of movement in time and space they were also the unselfconscious products of scientific investigation, not art, not even ends in themselves, but fortuitous things, superior accidents.
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NOTES
1. Futurist Manifestos, Thames & Hudson, 1973. Abridged and translated by Caroline Tisdall, the manifesto was first published in Lacerba 1 July 1913. See full text in Anton Giulio Bragaglia Fotodinamismo Futurista (Einaudi, Turin, 1970).
