Sixteen surrealists photographed with their eyes shut, round a painting of a woman the sentence says they do not see. A table of four pictures and four words, three of them wrong. Magritte built that table three times, and the one true word in it was a wager on a reader.
The caption is up. The picture hasn’t arrived, made for the essay.
Why we’re pointing you there
The essay starts from Jonathan Jones’s Guardian review of Gagosian’s “This Is Still Not a Pipe,” which hunts Magritte’s heirs among forty living artists, and puts his four-panel Clef des songes back among the surrealists instead: painted first in Breton’s Paris in 1927 while the movement wrote down its dreams, painted again in 1929 with no true word in it, in the year of the pipe and of the review that printed his axioms on words and images and the page of sixteen closed eyes, and painted last in Brussels in 1935, in English, for New York. In Brussels his friends proposed his titles round a table.
Then it reads the machines beside the first Manifesto. Writing with no author at its centre is what the surrealists asked for, and a captioner writing ninety-five sentences in every hundred of a training set is that wish granted; when the dream spoke at scale it said “actor on the red carpet.” The machines are Breton’s heirs, not Magritte’s, and they have done one thing the surrealists did not: put the caption before the picture, so that an image made from a prompt is an illustration of its title, which Magritte is said to have ruled out. The rival reading, that Magritte’s subject was the folly of decoding, is given at full strength and conceded. What is left is a question, not a verdict: who is reading the sentence under the picture now.
Since our founding in the 1960s, the MIT Press has been considered a premier publisher of architectural scholarship. To celebrate World Architecture Day, this year we are highlighting some of our latest books on architectural theory and practice—including a study of anarchitecture, an investigation of an enigmatic Italian architect-designer, and an abecedarium-style book exploring architect’s intersection with animal life.
An Open Work investigates the celebrated, enigmatic Italian architect-designer Marco Zanuso (1919–2001). Zanuso’s buildings were widely recognized in Italy, and today his object and furniture designs, which won many awards in their time, can be found in prestigious museums worldwide, yet few scholars have addressed the different scales he worked at as parts of a whole. This beautifully written, lavishly illustrated book opens the door to Zanuso’s acclaimed work, specifically his dual focus on architecture and industrial design, a form of practice that many architects in Milan pursued as the Italian economy rebounded in a surge of industrialization after World War II.
Anarchitecture, a radical aesthetic practice of unmaking the built environment, staged a vigorous confrontation with urban renewal and gentrification projects in the 1970s. In Anarchitecture After Everything, Jack Halberstam identifies a powerful lexicon of transformation within anarchitecture, joining the movement’s practices of cutting and splitting with the destabilizing power of transness to detonate acts of formal violence in our time. By reading anarchitecture through transness and transness through anarchitecture, Halberstam helps us see the trans body as a space of radical unmaking and as a portal to new lexicons for transformation.
Drawing on his pioneering expertise in the relationship between graphic satire and architecture, Gabriele Neri retraces Alan Dunn’s path from painter to renowned cartoonist, offering an unconventional perspective on architectural and urban transformations—and on their perception within society. Featuring 200 carefully selected images, including Dunn’s correspondence, unpublished cartoons, preliminary sketches, watercolors, and rare photographs, Alan Dunn demonstrates the critical potential of caricature and cartoons for architectural history. Through Neri’s deft analysis, the book also reveals the complex intersections of architecture with media, publishing, commerce, society, art, and politics.
In The Architect and the Animal, 26 different architects look at how 26 different animals, from A to Z, have found their way into modern architectural discourse. The animal was typically approached in this discourse not through its various cultural or symbolic identities but as a body examined under a formalistic scientific lens. In this volume, the authors explore a less operative—and more meaningful—understanding of animal references and representations in twentieth-century architecture. Both playful and serious, there is nothing quite like this book.
Magic Architecture was the architect Frederick Kiesler’s most ambitious book project, an epoch-spanning history of human housing from prehistory to the atomic era, submitted to editors after World War II but left unpublished. In its holistic view of habitation through the lens of anthropology, ecology, and the life sciences, Magic Architecture is one of the most extraordinary texts on architecture written in the twentieth century, now at last published in the twenty-first. Kiesler’s exploration of the effects of modern technology in combination with the alternative epistemology of “magical” practices associated with cave drawings and the first artifacts of human industry reflects his profoundly interdisciplinary perspective on the development of art, architecture, and design.
Much has been written about Renaissance architect Leon Battista Alberti’s mantra of part-to-whole as one of the continuing conditions of architecture. While this underlying thesis has often been repeated in the annals of architectural history and theory, architects have rarely questioned the idea. In Rewriting Alberti, architect Peter Eisenman suggests, however, that Alberti provoked a radical discourse beyond the part-to-whole dialogue featured in his Ten Books of Architecture. Eisenman’s in-depth analysis of Alberti’s five built works reveals a disjunction between the architect’s buildings and theoretical writings, suggesting a new relationship of form to meaning based on the fragmentation of homogeneous space.
A Cotswold manor is for sale at £15 million, honey-coloured and perfectly symmetrical. Two centuries ago three sisters held it, in the very decade Jane Austen was writing about sisters who could hold no land.
Foxcote at dusk in two eras, made for the essay.
Why we’re pointing you there
Foxcote Manor, near Withington in Gloucestershire, came to market this autumn transformed, its ivy stripped and its rooms gone cream. Intellicurean’s first Literary Experience sets the sale beside the county history, the listing and two Austen novels, and finds that almost nothing in the picture is what it seems. A woman named Sarah Jordan left the manor to three nieces, a will that runs the other way from the one that opens Sense and Sensibility. William Cobbett rode through in 1826 and read the village church as proof of decline, and the census answers him. The symmetrical stone front turns out to be more than three hundred years of work, dressed to look like a single moment.
What we liked most is how carefully it listens to the record, and to its silences. Where the documents can correct what we see, they do, plainly. Where they fall quiet, about a bequest, two weddings and a third sister who simply disappears, the essay lets the music in and asks what that longing is worth.
A sale-staged dining room with a tenant the record lost, made for the essay.
What is the largest art-history library in the world? The answer to this question depends of course on how you measure size, but an institution that might reasonably claim such a status is the RKD in The Hague. The RKD has for decades been a vast and invaluable library and archive, carefully nurtured by expert librarians and archivists (or ‘curators’ as they have long been described).
A new drawing by Édouard Manet
A newly identified drawing in a private collection of a crouching girl is a characteristic example of the red-chalk life studies that Édouard Manet made in the 1860s, influenced by his close study of Renaissance draughtsmanship in Florence. Although squared for transfer, the drawing has not yet been linked to any known composition by the artist.
Mistaken identities: Liotard’s 1762 portrait of Marie-Antoinette
A refined portrait by Jean-Étienne Liotard in the Musée d’art et d’histoire, Geneva, has long been identified as depicting Marie-Antoinette as a child. New research establishes, however, that it is a drawing of another member of the imperial Habsburg family and also reveals a hitherto unidentified likeness of Marie-Antoinette.
“Sadness of success”, writes Albert Camus in a notebook entry for June 25, 1947: “If everything were more difficult for me, as before, I’d have much more right to say what I say”. The success in question was winning the Prix des Critiques for La Peste (The Plague), published a fortnight earlier. It could be worse, the reader wants to tell him by way of consolation: you could have won the Nobel. Fast-forward ten years and the entry for October 17, 1957, reads: “Nobel. Strange feeling of overwhelming weight and melancholy. At 20 years old, poor and naked, I knew true glory. My mother”.
From its origins in the classical physique and homoerotic spectacle, bodybuilding today often involves the use of steroids whose dangers are not properly understood.
When Fitness Went Global: The Rise of Physical Culture in the Nineteenth Century by Conor Heffernan
A Genealogy of Male Bodybuilding: From Classical to Freaky by Dimitris Liokaftos
Muscle Works: Physical Culture and the Performance of Masculinity by Broderick D.V. Chow
What is the rise of AI capital, and what does it mean for contemporary work, culture, and the ecological state of our planet? John Bellamy Foster dispels the myth of a “hyperorganized AI capitalism.” As Foster writes: “We are not entering a stable new age…but rather a new, capitalist-engendered global disorder in which humanity, according to climate science, is headed ever more rapidly toward a planetary ‘point of no return.'” The only way out—the only way, that is, to ensure the survival of humanity—is a radical shift away from the catastrophically destructive regime of capital accumulation and toward sustainable human development through socialism.
Paul Buhle reviews The Radical Jewish Tradition by Donny Glickstein and Janey Stone. The book, Buhle writes, is a window onto “the antinomies of nineteenth-century Jewish life”—including the growing movement against Zionism and for socialism among Eastern European Jews. This authors, Buhle notes, also tells the story of Jewish communists in Britain, the United States, and beyond, taking into account the wide sweep of Jewish left activity globally, situating the present struggles against genocide in Palestine squarely within the legacy of radical Jews everywhere.
Today’s resurgence in U.S. imperialist interventions abroad and the concomitant so-called crisis of the “rules-based order” can be explained, Luís Eduardo Fernandes argues, through the category of “legal imperialism, which refers to how the international juridical form is internalized within societies and in the context of dependency, colonialism, unequal exchange, and monopoly capital. “International law and imperialism,” Fernandes writes, “do not stand as opposing poles. They are part of the same unity.… Violence is constitutive of the juridical form.”
King’s Secretary: William Paget and the Last Years of the Reign of Henry VIII By Andrew Johnston
Tudor history buffs and attentive readers of Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall trilogy will recognise the name William Paget. Others will require some words of introduction. Paget (1505/6–63) was an able and influential diplomat and administrator who rose to become principal secretary to Henry VIII. ‘Rose’ is the operative word. Paget, like his predecessor and mentor Thomas Cromwell, was a self-made man, though his father, a sergeant serving the sheriff of London, was able to provide him with a grammar school and Cambridge education.
The Last Invasion of England: 1688 and the Dutch Armada By Arthur der Weduwen
Much is exceptional about the Bayeux Tapestry currently on magnificent display in the British Museum, but nothing is quite so exceptional as the event itself. As the museum’s website reminds us, 1066 ‘was the last time England was successfully invaded’. Our sea-girt immunity from foreign invasion has been at the centre of ‘Our Island Story’ ever since, with the Channel confounding the hubris of Philip II in 1588 and 1596, of Napoleon in 1803 and of Hitler in 1940.
Imperial Predator: Britain and the Destruction of the Ottoman Empire By David S Tonge
In his survey of the collapse of the Ottoman Empire in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, David S Tonge sees Britain as an aggressive superpower, hence the title of his excellent book. My one quibble is zoological. ‘Predator’ may not be quite the right word. For in much of Tonge’s story Britain is less lion than vulture: what zoologists call an obligate scavenger – or a necrophagous power – feeding on carrion. The Ottoman carcass had already been wounded by Russian aggression, nationalist revolt, indebtedness and internal decay. There were exceptions, and Britain could be predatory when circumstances demanded, notably in Cyprus and Alexandria, but its more characteristic pose was to sniff the odour of mortality and arrive in time for lunch.
In 1638 the king’s jester asked an archbishop, “Who’s fool now?” and was thrown out of court the same day. The fool’s license to mock has changed hands ever since. It has rarely been the fool’s to keep.
The fool’s coat set down and the pen taken up, made for the essay.
Why we’re pointing you there
Archibald Armstrong had jested for two kings when he mocked Archbishop Laud over the Scottish prayer-book revolt. The Privy Council sentenced him to have his coat pulled over his head and be banished the court. Michael Cummins starts there and asks who has held the fool’s license since kings stopped keeping fools. He follows it through Shakespeare’s “allowed fool,” a caricaturist on a party pension, and a Victor Hugo play banned after a single night. Then a British cabinet minister takes a cartoonist to lunch, and in January 2025 a Pulitzer Prize winner walks out of the Washington Post.
What we liked most is the centerpiece. In 1937 Goebbels complained about David Low’s cartoons, and Lord Halifax carried the complaint home. The newspaper said it couldn’t control Low, so the minister had to ask the cartoonist himself. Low agreed to ease off, and answered with a new character whose name was a pun on what had just happened to him. The essay grants that the cost of losing the license has fallen a long way since Armstrong’s day. It ends by asking whether a paying public is a freer master than a king, or only a larger court.
The fox knows many things, the proverb says, and the hedgehog knows one big thing. But in the oldest story we have of the two actually meeting, it is the fox who knows one big thing, and Aesop used it to plead for a thief’s life.
The fox in the hole and the hedgehog on the ledge, made for the essay.
Why we’re pointing you there
Isaiah Berlin made the fox and the hedgehog famous as two kinds of mind, and forecasters have since made the fox the one to be. Michael Cummins goes back to a story Aristotle preserved in his Rhetoric. A fox swept into a hole in the rocks is covered in fleas. A passing hedgehog offers to pick them off, and she refuses: these fleas are full, and new ones would be hungry. Aesop told it to an assembly on Samos to argue that a rich man on trial for his life should be spared, because a poor successor would steal more. Aristotle kept the speech and never recorded the verdict.
What we liked most is what the essay notices in the details. The fox’s refusal only makes sense because she can’t get out of the hole. Four centuries later, Josephus has the emperor Tiberius tell the same story to explain why he left his governors in place so long. The emperor’s version has no hole, and his reasoning is sharper than the fable’s. The essay says so plainly, and then shows what that sharper reasoning made possible. It ends on the hedgehog, the one character who never gets to answer. Every quotation from the ancient texts has been checked against the texts themselves.
A wounded man and a stander-by, made for the essay.
