Apart from a few bridges that still work, the infrastructural achievements of the Roman Empire exist, for us, mostly as ruins. With a little imagination, those historic sites give us a clear enough sense of the empire’s sheer might, but if we want to go deeper, we should then look into the numerous Roman constructions that haven’t survived at all. In the video below from his channel Told in Stone, ancient-history YouTuber Garrett Ryan gives his personal top seven “lost Roman wonders,” beginning with Trajan’s Bridge, whose length of more than a kilometer across the Danube made it the longest bridge ever built at that time: a project of ambitions befitting a man that history remembers as one of the “Five Good Emperors.”
No such status for Nero, though he did commission the Subiaco Dams. Necessary to create a series of artificial lakes beneath the infamous ruler’s villa, they were the highest dams in existence until the Middle Ages. Hadrian’s more public-minded white-marble temple at Cyzicus in modern-day Turkey was known as unusually splendid even by the standards of that genre of building; now only its foundations remain, with archaeological digs turning up the occasional fragment.
In the former Constantinople, the Church of the Holy Apostles is remembered as the second-most famous vanished early Christian church, after only the old St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Hagia Sophia may still be around, but the Column of Justinian that once stood between it and the Great Palace was melted down for scrap long ago.
We only know of these lost structures because we have historical attestations of their existence, most vividly in paintings: take the Pyramid of Romulus, a striking tomb that appears near the Vatican in The Vision of the Cross, which Raphael’s assistants produced after his death. Others, like the Colossus of Nero from which the Colosseum takes its name, are represented on coins. In the video at the top, Ryan covers three more “forgotten Roman megaprojects”: Claudius’ tunnel of record-making length through the mountain between the River Liris and the Fucine Lake, Trajan’s military highway through the “Iron Gates” of the Danube, and Octavian’s secret harbor at Lake Avernus. In our time, of course, there are no more emperors, Roman or otherwise, and we’re surely better off for it. But we can still admire — to use a twenty-first century concept — the state capacity they commanded.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletterBooks on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro.Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
Madman or visionary? A little of both? A genius? A brand? A mensch? David Lynch was all these things and more, and this fan-made video above serves as a quick reminder of the career and the consistency of the film director/artist/transcendental meditator who passed away last year.
Early in the video we see one of the director’s publicity stunts, when he sat in a chair on the corner of La Brea and Hollywood, next to a cow and a large poster of Laura Dern. No, the cow had nothing to do with the film he was promoting—2006’s Inland Empire—but it did stop traffic and draw attention. Lynch didn’t have an advertising budget to promote Laura Dern’s lead role in the film, so the cow had to do.
Laura Dern appeared in a majority of Lynch’s films beginning with 1986’s Blue Velvet, and the video honors their friendship (he called her “Tidbit”) as well as his collaborations with Kyle MacLachlan (who Lynch called “Kale”) and Naomi Watts. All three obviously adored him.
There’s also a compilation of Lynch swearing like a champ. Product placement in film is “bullshit,” problems on set are “fucking nuts,” and for those who sat through the “peanut sweeping” scene in Twin Peaks The Return, you’ll understand his outburst on set: “Who gives a fuc&ing $hit how long a scene is?”
We’ve linked previously to Lynch’s video where he makes quinoa, and this short edit sums up that video nicely. It’s also nice to see attention given to The Straight Story, which usually gets passed over in his filmography, despite (or maybe because of) being his sweetest movie.
The video ends with Lynch’s theory about catching ideas like fish—we’ve also highlighted this before—and then a lovely montage of title cards, reminding us all that “Directed by David Lynch” remains a guaranteed sign of quality.
Note: An earlier version of this post appeared on our site in 2020.
It doesn’t take too long a look at the almost surrealistically clean-lined buildings of Walter Gropius to get the impression that the man wanted to usher in a new world, especially when you consider that many of them went up before World War II. Take the Bauhaus Dessau building, which, though completed exactly a century ago, looks like a concrete transmission from the future that never arrived, or one that may indeed still be on the way. It once housed the German art school turned political and cultural engine he founded in 1919, whose principles included absolute equality between male and female participants — or they did at first, at any rate.
Soon deciding that the new institution wouldn’t be taken seriously with too high a proportion of women, Gropius limited their enrollment to one-third of the student body. That episode, among others that underscore the ways in which Gropius and the Bauhaus’ ostensible commitment to the advancement of women wasn’t all it could be, figures into Susanne Radelhof’s documentary The Untold Story of Bauhaus Women.
Yet whatever the shortcomings in that department one might identify from a twenty-first century vantage, the fact remains that the Bauhaus made possible — or at least encouraged — more enduring and influential work by female artists and designers than almost any art school in early twentieth-century Europe.
Among the almost 500 women who studied at the Bauhaus, the film profiles figures like Alma Buscher, “who created prototypes of avant-garde furniture and toys”; “visionary metalsmith and designer” Marianne Brandt; Gunta Stölzl, whose “weaving revolutionized modern textile design” (weaving eventually being the main program to which women were admitted); Friedl Dicker, a “multitalented artist” dedicated to the Bauhaus; and Lucia Moholy, whose “exceptional photographs still influence how we view Bauhaus design today.” The school itself may have shut down in 1933, owing to the conflict between its aesthetic and political ends and those of the rising Nazi Party, but the forward-looking nature and worldwide cultural influence of the Bauhaus have ensured that we still feel the influence of its alumni, male and female alike.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletterBooks on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro.Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
The playwright Tristan Bernard is said to have eaten lunch at the Eiffel Tower every day, but not because he liked the menu in its café: rather, because it was the only place in Paris with no view of the Eiffel Tower. His view wasn’t wholly eccentric in the decades after its construction, in the late eighteen-eighties, when the structure had yet to become the most beloved in France, and perhaps in the world. Yet not far behind the Eiffel Tower as a must-visit tourist attraction in a town full of them is Paris’ least beloved building: the Tour Montparnasse, which since its completion in 1973 has stood in infamy as the only skyscraper in the center of the city.
Unlike the Eiffel Tower, which was commissioned in part to celebrate the centennial of the French Revolution, the Tour Montparnasse projects no political symbolism; unlike Notre-Dame de Paris, or Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre, it has no religious significance. Its purpose is wholly commercial, befitting a large office building with a shopping mall — or now, the remains of a shopping mall — at the bottom. But when it was first conceived in 1958, it embodied the very image of modernity in a built environment that was dilapidated where it wasn’t war-torn. A modern skyscraper would show the world, unmistakably, that Paris had stepped fully into the twentieth century of indoor plumbing, electricity, fast trains, and telecommunication.
This mission gained the full backing of none other than Andre Malraux, then France’s first Minister of Cultural Affairs. Unfortunately, nineteen-fifties Europe lacked the technology, expertise, and money required for a 60-story skyscraper, let alone one serving as the centerpiece of a sweeping redevelopment project that included gleaming new residential blocks and a completely rebuilt Montparnasse Station. The tower couldn’t even break ground until 1969, by which time the building’s once-cutting-edge mid-century design — hardly a universal hit even in maquette form — had already begun to look passé. (Part of the problem was surely its color, which architect Philippe Trétiack described as having “a touch of the nicotine stain about it.”)
When the Tour Montparnasse turned 50 a few years ago, I happened to be in Paris on my honeymoon. Nothing was happening to mark the occasion, apart from the long-ongoing discussions about whether to renovate the thing or just knock it down. The former option having won the day, you can see the details of the planned extreme makeover in the B1M video above. Rather than destroying the existing building, the idea is to do the next best thing and make it invisible. This ambitious project will install a new façade of clear glass and bands of sky gardens, among other changes, in order to lighten its burdensome visual mass. But however radical its transformation, one suspects that it will remain most appreciated as the only place in Paris without a view of the Tour Montparnasse.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletterBooks on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro.Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
Antonio Vivaldi’s The Four Seasonsreigns as one of the world’s most recognizable early 18th-century pieces, thanks to its frequent appearances in films and television commercials.
Upon its debut in 1725, The Four Seasons stunned listeners by telling a story without the help of a human voice. Vivaldi drew on four existing sonnets (possibly of his own provenance), using strings to paint a narrative filled with spring thunderstorms, summer’s swelter, autumnal hunts and harvests, and the icy winds of winter.
The composer studded his score with precisely placed lines from the sonnets, to convey his expectations that the musicians would use their instruments to sonically embody the experiences being described.
For two hundred years, musicians cleaved closely to Vivaldi’s original orchestration.
The last hundred years, however, have seen a wide range of instruments and interpretations. Drums, synths, an electric guitar, a Chinese pipa, an Indian sarangi, a pair of Inuit throat singers, a Japanese a cappella women’s chorus, a Theremin and a musical saw are among those to have taken a stab at The Four Seasons’ drowsing goatherd, barking dog, and twittering birdies.
Remembering that Vivaldi himself was a great innovator, we suggest that there’s nothing wrong with taking a break from all that to revisit the original flavor.
The San Francisco-based early music ensemble, Voices of Music does so beautifully, above, with a video playlist of live performances given between 2015 and 2018, with the four concertos edited to be presented in their traditional order.
Voices of Music co-directors David Tayler and Hanneke van Proosdij were adamant that these high quality audio recordings would leave listeners feeling as if they are in the same room with the musicians and their baroque instruments. As Tayler told Early Music America:
We did tests where we sat in the audience listening to the mix. We stopped when we got to the point that it sounded like sitting in the audience. We didn’t want something that looked like a concert, with a CD playing in the background.
Multiple stationery cameras ensured that the mostly standing performers’ spontaneous physical responses to the music and each other would not pass unremarked. As tempting as it is to savor these joyful sounds with ears alone, we recommend taking it in with your eyes, too. The pleasure these virtuosos take in Vivaldi and each other is a delight.
You also won’t want to miss the English translations of the sonnet, broken into subtitles and timed to appear at the exact place where they appear in Vivaldi’s 300 year-old score.
While the audience reactions were edited from the presentation above, we’d be remiss if we didn’t direct you to a playlist wherein these virtuoso players are seen graciously accepting the applause of the crowds who were lucky enough to catch these performances in person.
Note: An earlier version of this post appeared on our site in 2021.
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No one who travels to Florence can help seeing the dome of the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Flower. That’s true not just because of its sheer looming physical presence over the rest of the city, but also because of its importance as an achievement in various kinds of history, from that of engineering to architecture to religion. Its story is told by art historians Beth Harris and Steven Zucker in their new Smarthistory video above, which begins in the year 1417. At the time, Zucker explains, Florence had a “huge” problem: the groundwork for its ambitiously large cathedral had been laid a century before, but nobody knew how to build the dome for which its plans called.
The assumption, says Harris, was that “by the time they had to build it, they would figure out how to do it,” a reflection of both the more relaxed speed of construction in the fifteenth century, as well as a pace of innovation that must have felt rapidly on the increase.
Such a structure hadn’t been built since the Pantheon in antiquity, the outdoing of which would, at least in theory, confirm Florence’s reception of the torch of civilization from Rome. But none of the traditional techniques could support a dome of this size, atop so high a tower, during construction. Salvation eventually came in the unpromising form of Filippo Brunelleschi, an architect, sculptor, and goldsmith without much of a résumé — but, crucially, with a deep understanding of the Pantheon.
“Brunelleschi realized that hemispherical domes function in a self-supporting manner if they’re constructed out of self-supporting concentric circles,” Zucker says, and his challenge was to use that knowledge to build an octagonal dome. This involved designing two domes, a thick inner one covered by a thin outer one. Drop €30 on a ticket, and you can ascend the stairs through the inter-dome gap yourself. There the walls reveal the herringbone brick pattern that kept the structure stable; at a larger scale, those bricks form structural elements, much like oversized versions of the stones used to build arches since time immemorial. Regarding almost any picture of Florence, your eye may go straight to the cathedral, drawn both to the dome and to the splendor of its other era-mixing architectural features. But only from the inside can you understand how it all works.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletterBooks on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro.Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
Jack Kerouac wants you to turn writing into “free deviation (association) of mind into limitless blow-on-subject seas of thought, swimming in sea of English with no discipline, other than rhythms of rhetorical exhalation and expostulated statement….” Think you can do that? Find out by following Kerouac’s “Essentials of Spontaneous Prose.” He published this document in Black Mountain Review in 1957 and wrote it in response to a request from Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs that he explain his method for writing The Subterraneansin three days time.
And for a theory of Kerouac’s not quite theory, visit the site of Marissa M. Juarez, formerly a professor of Rhetoric, Composition, and the Teaching of English at the University of Arizona. Juarez raises some salient points about why Kerouac’s “Essentials” bemuse the English teacher: His method “discourages revision… chastises grammatical correctness, and encourages writerly flexibility.” Read Kerouac’s full “Essentials of Spontaneous Prose” here or below. [Note: If you see what looks like typos, they are not errors. They are part of Kerouac’s original, spontaneous text.]
SET-UP: The object is set before the mind, either in reality. as in sketching (before a landscape or teacup or old face) or is set in the memory wherein it becomes the sketching from memory of a definite image-object.
PROCEDURE: Time being of the essence in the purity of speech, sketching language is undisturbed flow from the mind of personal secret idea-words, blowing (as per jazz musician) on subject of image.
METHOD: No periods separating sentence-structures already arbitrarily riddled by false colons and timid usually needless commas-but the vigorous space dash separating rhetorical breathing (as jazz musician drawing breath between outblown phrases)– “measured pauses which are the essentials of
our speech”– “divisions of the sounds we hear”- “time and how to note it down.” (William Carlos Williams)
SCOPING: Not “selectivity” of expression but following free deviation (association) of mind into limitless blow-on-subject seas of thought,
swimming in sea of English with no discipline other than rhythms of rhetorical exhalation and expostulated statement, like a fist coming down on a table with each complete utterance, bang! (the space dash)- Blow as deep as you want-write as deeply, fish as far down as you want, satisfy yourself first, then reader cannot fail to receive telepathic shock and meaning-excitement by same laws operating in his own human mind.
LAG IN PROCEDURE: No pause to think of proper word but the infantile pileup of scatological buildup words till satisfaction is gained, which will turn out to be a great appending rhythm to a thought and be in accordance with Great Law of timing.
TIMING: Nothing is muddy that runs in time and to laws of time-Shakespearian stress of dramatic need to speak now in own unalterable way or forever hold tongue-no revisions (except obvious rational mistakes, such as names or calculated insertions in act of not writing but inserting).
CENTER OF INTEREST: Begin not from preconceived idea of what to say about image but from jewel center of interest in subject of image at moment of writing, and write outwards swimming in sea of language to peripheral release and exhaustion-Do not afterthink except for poetic or P. S. reasons. Never afterthink to “improve” or defray impressions, as, the best writing is always the most painful personal wrung-out tossed from cradle warm protective mind-tap from yourself the song of yourself, blow!-now!-your way is your only way- “good”-or “bad”-always honest (“ludi- crous”), spontaneous, “confessionals’ interesting, because not “crafted.” Craft is craft.
STRUCTURE OF WORK: Modern bizarre structures (science fiction, etc.) arise from language being dead, “different” themes give illusion of “new” life. Follow roughly outlines in outfanning movement over subject, as river rock, so mindflow over jewel-center need (run your mind over it, once) arriving at pivot, where what was dim-formed “beginning” becomes sharp-necessitating “ending” and language shortens in race to wire of time-race of work, following laws of Deep Form, to conclusion, last words, last trickle-Night is The End.
MENTAL STATE: If possible write “without consciousness” in semi-trance (as Yeats’ later “trance writing”) allowing subconscious to admit in own uninhibited interesting necessary and so “modern” language what conscious art would censor, and write excitedly, swiftly, with writing-or-typingcramps, in accordance (as from center to periphery) with laws of orgasm, Reich’s “beclouding of consciousness.” Come from within, out-to relaxed and said.
Oh, and for authenticity’s sake, you should try Kerouac’s “Essentials” on a typewriter. It’s all he had when he wrote The Subterraneans. No grammar robots to distract him.
Note: An earlier version of this post appeared on our site in 2013.
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We know more or less everything we could possibly know about ancient Egyptian civilization. That owes in large part to the advanced state of record-keeping it achieved, and how many of its writings have survived, up to and including — as previously featured here on Open Culture — a homework assignment and a list of excuses given by builders who missed work. There just happens to be one especially glaring gap in our knowledge: exactly how the ancient Egyptians built the Pyramids of Giza. This intersection of relative ignorance and extreme fascination has, as architecture YouTuber Dami Lee acknowledges in the video above, inspired no end of crackpot-ism. Nothing could be as unpromising as unsolicited contact from someone claiming to have discovered the secret of the pyramids.
The case of a Korean independent researcher called Huni Choi proved to be different, for reasons Lee uses the video to lay out. Conventional assumptions about how the pyramids were built hold that workers would have had to drag the stones up one or more ramps, though the dimensions of the structures dictate that the project would necessitate huge, complex, or huge and complex ramp systems — whose own construction has somehow left behind not a trace of evidence.
According to Choi, “the Great Pyramid wasn’t built on its own, but through a chain of ‘sacrificial’ structures” designed to be “cannibalized.” The idea is that the pyramids were “overbuilt,” starting with a gigantic “trapezoidal mass” with an integrated ramp system, which, after being topped out, was then carved down into the pyramid shape we still find so familiar and compelling.
If true, Choi’s theory would solve the long-intractable problem of the pointed tops, which posed such a thorny engineering problem that even other pyramid-building civilizations seemingly avoided even attempting them. It also accounts for how the Egyptian designers and builders could have kept an eye on the angles all the while, in order to make sure the things were going up straight. And what of the leftover stone cut away from each pyramid? Why, it would simply have been re-used for the construction of the next one. This all squares not just with the estimated mass of the Giza complex, but also with apparent ancient Egyptian attitudes toward the natural and built environment. Alas, unlike in, say, physics, an archaeological theory like this one remains difficult to prove dispositively, barring another technological breakthrough that enables a new form of analysis of the pyramids themselves. Still, it’s a lot more satisfying than just assuming some ancient aliens did it.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletterBooks on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro.Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
In 1964—a year before the release of A Charlie Brown Christmas—Vince Guaraldi gave the first televised performance of “Linus and Lucy.” Filmed for public television, the performance featured Guaraldi on piano, Tom Beeson on bass, and John Rae on drums. Long unseen, this 1964 performance captures the piece in its earliest televised form, well before A Charlie Brown Christmas became the second-best-selling jazz album in history. Sit back, take a deep breath, and enjoy this groovy, historic performance.
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The age of social media has shown humanity a fair few truths about itself, not all of them flattering. But once in a while, one of the waves of discourse that roll through the internet really does help us better understand one another. Take the surprise some have expressed in recent years upon finding out that the expression to “picture” something in one’s head isn’t just a figure of speech. You mean that people “picturing an apple,” say, haven’t been just thinking about an apple, but actually seeing one in their heads? The inability to do that has a name: aphantasia, from the Greek word phantasia, “image,” and prefix -a, “without.”
That same template has lately been used to create another term, anendophasia, whose roots endo and phasia mean “inner” and “speech.” As you might expect, the word refers to the lack of an internal monologue. That sounds bizarre to many who hear it for the first time: some because they can’t imagine thinking in words, and others because they can’t imagine thinking in anything else.
These, as explained in the Voided Thoughts video above, are just some of the ways the experiences inside our heads differ. Some 40 percent of us hear and even have conversations with “internal voices,” about 50 percent of us see things in our mind’s eye instead, and some 20 percent report thinking exclusively in feelings. Those who belong to one of those groups will have trouble imagining what life is like for anyone in the others.
This owes to the inherent inaccessibility of one human being’s subjective experience to another, a condition that has bedeviled philosophers practically since the emergence of their profession. But scientific researchers have also been looking into it, and their studies have suggested that the capacity for internal monologues and mental pictures makes more than a trivial difference in one’s life. Visual thinkers, the video notes, tend to be better at memorization; verbal thinkers “usually have an edge when it comes to planning, problem-solving, and rehearsing,” but they’re also “more prone to looping thoughts.” In practice, most of us use both forms of thinking in different proportions depending on the situation, and thus, to an extent, enjoy both sets of advantages — and should watch out for both sets of disadvantages.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletterBooks on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro.Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
Few professionals tend to live as long, or mature as slowly, as architects. Frank Gehry died late last year at the formidable age of 96, with several projects still under construction. But he’d only really been Frank Gehry for the past half-century or so: not in the sense of having changed his name from Frank Goldberg (a choice he made in his twenties and later came to regret), but in having planted his first recognizable flag in the built environment. The environment was a quiet middle-class residential neighborhood in Santa Monica; the flag was his own home, a modest Dutch Colonial fixer-upper originally built in 1920, and transformed by Gehry into what resembled a highly controlled industrial disaster.
“He fortified parts of the pastel-painted, shingled exterior with corrugated steel, wrapped layers of chain-link fencing over other portions in angular planes not seen since Russian Constructivism, and slammed a tilted cubic skylight, which looked as if it had fallen from outer space, into the kitchen,” writes New York Review of Books architecture critic Martin Filler in his remembrance of the architect.
“In the interior he exposed walls down to the wooden studs and treated vestigial white plaster patches as though they were Robert Ryman paintings. Paradoxically, this messy mash-up also exuded a cozy domesticity,” a quality on display in Beyond Utopia: Changing Attitudes in American Architecture, a 1983 documentary co-written by Filler that includes an interview with Gehry in the house’s kitchen.
About fifteen years before the Guggenheim Bilbao, and two decades before Disney Concert Hall, the starchitect-to-be sits in the kitchen of his radically renovated home with his two young sons. “I like that when you look through the top you can see down here in the kitchen,” says one of them. Now, here to speak more expansively on the project’s virtues, and how they fit into the longer arc of Gehry’s career, is architect and star of Architectural Design’s Youtube channel star Michael Wyetzner, with a new video called “What Frank Gehry’s Personal Home Teaches Us About Creative Risk.” And indeed, such risk-taking stood out in his own generation, most of whose major architects adhered one way or another to modernist or postmodernist trends. As his home renovation signaled, Gehry decided to go his own way.
At a glance, the jagged, almost aggressive look of the Gehry residence may hardly bring to mind the gleaming metallic curves, almost invariably described as “undulating,” of the Guggenheim Bilbao and Disney Hall. But Wyetzner finds deeper resonances with various elements of the aesthetic sensibility that Gehry cultivated in his work from his middle-age self-reinvention through his nonagenarian eminence, not least emphasizing the impression of movement and the “noisy versus quiet” visual dynamic. Contrast is power, as all artists understand on one level or another — and, perhaps, as Frank Gehry came to understand that while hanging out with Los Angeles artists before he made his name. Though he never exactly joined their ranks, it is as an “artist-architect,” in Wyetzner’s words, that he will be remembered.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletterBooks on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro.Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
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