241 Things

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Studium Generale 1000things lectures, The Hague

241 Things

cuckoo clocks in the living room

Nearly everyone knows them: cuckoo clocks. That miniature house fastened to the wall, heavily decorated with leaves, birds, or other animals. Two iron weights, usually in the shape of pineapples, dangle beneath, and its wooden pendulum is most often covered in a leaf.

Children were – and are – especially fond of them. Time and time again, the little bird peeks out from behind the door to announce the time of day with its call, all the while opening and closing his beak, rocking to and fro, and sometimes even flapping his wings.

Although at one time the clocks were extremely fashionable, they gradually waned in popularity. They were generally considered increasingly kitsch and owning one became ‘not done’. The pinnacles of chic were the clocks from the Dutch areas of Friesland and the Zaan region, or otherwise the comptoises from France. In many cases, the cuckoo clock was exiled to the corridor, often ending up in the attic, and from there on, not seldom, into the rubbish bin!

But why kitsch? Even I have to admit that there are some very ugly specimens out there. The woodcarvings have become gradually less refined and the garish use of colours has become increasingly common. To my sentiment, the word ‘ugly’ is highly applicable in these cases. But to refer to them as kitsch? No.

When I think of kitsch, I think of all the so-called ‘old Dutch’ style Frisian and Zaanse clocks that have been widespread since the fifties and now ‘decorate’ the walls of elderly care homes in great numbers. These clocks can be classified as kitsch because they’re made up of parts from all over: with their multiplex or particleboard housing, their mechanics straight from the Black Forest, and their cast copper decorative elements emblazoned with the text: ‘Nu elck sijn sin’.

There is such a thing as an authentic Zaanse clock, but these are more than half a meter tall, its heavy pear shaped weight must be lifted twice a day, and it will set you back around ten thousand Euros. But then you’ll be the owner of a sample built in the 18th century!

'Zaanse' clock

Nowadays, most ‘experts’ assume that the cuckoo clock was ‘invented’ around 1730 by Franz Anton Ketterer in Schönwald in the Black Forest. Occasionally, the existing types of clocks of the period were fitted with two ‘organ pipes’ that held two small built-in bellows. Every half hour, a mechanism lifted these bellows in turn and since they differed in pitch the ‘cuckoo clock’ was born.

The famous house shaped cuckoo clock was not conceived until much later in around 1860. These clocks were modelled after the signal houses that had become a recent fixture along the railways crossing through the Black Forest, hence their nickname ‘Bahnhäusle’ among the inner circles. Although these early examples already were covered in woodcarvings, they were still relatively sober in execution. Increasing prosperity around the 1880s meant a boom in the variety in design and size. Some clocks were even provided with a second bird:the quail. He pops out every fifteen minutes and each hour he’ll chirp the time in the number displayed by the hour hands. Quite a few of the clocks are equipped with chimes. After the cuckoo’s call, a melody will play, like ‘Edelweiss’ or ‘Der fröhliche Wanderer’ or a snippet from Mozart’s ‘Eine kleine Nachtmusik’ to name a few examples.

Since the beginning of its inception, the cuckoo clock has kept up with each style of furniture: ‘Biedermeier cuckoo clocks’, extraordinary Jugendstil examples, clocks in Art Deco style, but also ‘modern’ sixties and seventies versions.

Nowadays, the clocks are often fitted with battery-operated mechanics, ‘decorative’ weights and ditto pendulum. The realistic sound of a chirping cuckoo is programmed onto a chip and played through a speaker in the clock. With this clock in mind, I can sympathise with those referring to the cuckoo clock as kitsch. But the cuckoo’s call has yet to be relinquished and, still, some half a million clocks are manufactured in their ‘place of birth’: the Schwarzwald in the south of Germany. And not, like many believe, in Switzerland or Austria!

the guestroom at Henk Valk
childrens clocks
cuckoo clocks in the living room
Analemma Over New Jersey

What is the Analemma?
Well, it is certainly best understood over time, so, first, let's start with THE EQUATION OF TIME. A mathematical construct with a fantastically ambitious name, The Equation of Time is used to find the LOCATION of the sun in the sky on a specific day, at a specific time, at a specific location. It looks like this:

The Equation of Time is, more simply, the DIFFERENCE between the time on a sundial and the time on a clock. Of course the sundial came before the mechanical clock so one way to think of this difference is simply as the past trying to sync up with the future, or how much faster or slower tomorrow should be than today or yesterday.

Got it?
Not yet.

This discrepancy between solar time (sundial) and mean time (clock) is due to two primary factors -- ECCENTRICITY and OBLIQUITY. The earth does not orbit the sun in a precise circle, but instead in an ellipse. it travels faster at some points than others -- this is its eccentricity. The earth's axis does not run directly 90 degrees, but rather it is tilted (23 degrees) which causes the earth's rotation to be like a top -- this is its obliquity.
These two conditions result in the difference that is expressed by The Equation of Time as TWO COMPETING SINE WAVES, one with a period of one year, and one with half of that. The difference over the course of one year between SOLAR and MEAN time can be up to 30 minutes. The earth's eccentricity produces A SINE WAVE WITH A PERIOD OF ONE YEAR. Its OBLIQUITY produces ASECOND SINE WAVE, BUT WITH A PERIOD OF ONE HALF-YEAR.


The result of these two competing sine waves, with differing periods of repeat is is a recurring figure eight, which draws itself in the sky OVER THE COURSE OF ONE YEAR as the two sine waves fall into and out of phase -- This is the Analemma.

So. . .

If you take a photograph of the sun in the sky at the same time of day over the course of the year from a fixed camera, and composite the images, this is what you get:

Analemma Over New Jersey
Got it?

Underneath the roots of trees, under the pillars that carry the cities, under the lake in which the tower drowned, we crawl away, no one to watch us, no one to see us down here, loose, loose, we’re loose, we’ve lured the beast within, we’ve chased it down to here, for we hunt, banish the sun and the door clatters on behind nine waterfalls the rainbows rise in spatters, dome under which we were grown, silence still as stone solidified and soundless quests, dust hovers over the glowing gravel above the underground creek, we light the fire, gnaw the bones, bring out the ochre skulls and count the ages time has scattered on the floor, damply trapped in dank from cool chalk chambers to spots that grew into columns, walls that watch over the drawn out rains.

Outside the sun curls, waters gush, fields flame, but we abstain from light, pound pins into stone, climb, not up, but down past the loose ladders, the waterfall where bat once flew, no black figures hung upside down against the wet vault of this thousand year old cave now, home of the bear, house of the olm and auroch, the cries of our voices hollow from the hearth of our blood brothers, giant shadow of the fire, we continue crawling on the same knees as they through almond-shaped corridors and wander deep, deeply we arrive, we’re pricked by rock splinters, don’t wash ourselves, assume the colour of stone, there’s enough room to sharpen the axes, collecting lard for torches, tanning leather until late, blind the entrance with hands like claws, flatten the feathers on our arms and grope forwards in the dark, cast off time, we touch one another and taste the void at the back of our tongues from when we did not yet speak.