In addition to the annual parade of star pictures or constellations passing above our heads each night, there are always exciting events to look out for in the sky. The year 2025 is no exception and has its fair share of such events.

Though the night sky is more spectacular from a dark country sky, you can see the events outlined here even if, like many others, you live in a light-polluted city. For most events you do not need a telescope or binoculars.

Here are some of the highlights.

March and September: eclipses of the Moon

During the early morning of Monday 8 September, the full Moon will move into the shadow of Earth and be totally eclipsed. The Moon will turn a red or coppery colour, because sunlight is bent or refracted by Earth’s atmosphere onto the Moon. The bent light is red, as we are looking at the reflection of sunrises and sunsets from around the globe.

Total eclipses of the Moon are more common than those of the Sun. They can be seen from all the regions on Earth where it is night.

Unlike eclipses of the Sun, lunar eclipses are safe to watch with the unaided eye. They are also safe to photograph. A tripod will help, as will a camera or phone able to take timed exposures.

The eclipse starts with Earth’s shadow gradually covering the Moon over about an hour. Similarly, after totality the shadow takes about an hour to leave the Moon.

Seen from Australia’s east coast, the total eclipse will last from from 3:30am to 4:53am on September 8. From New Zealand, this will be from 5:30am to moonset; from South Australia or the Northern Territory, 3:00am to 4:23am, and from Western Australia 1:30am to 2:53am.

Earlier in the year, on the evening of Friday March 14, people in Aotearoa New Zealand will be able to see a totally eclipsed Moon as it rises above the horizon just after sunset. Watchers in eastern Australia will also get a brief glimpse of a partially eclipsed Moon after moonrise, for 34 minutes from Sydney, 43 minutes from Brisbane and 16 minutes from Cairns.

March: Saturn’s ‘disappearing’ rings

Gazing at Saturn and its rings through a telescope is always a thrill, whether you are seeing them for the first or the hundredth time. However, in early 2025 the rings will seem to vanish as Earth passes through the plane of the rings.

This phenomenon occurs twice during Saturn’s 29-year path around the Sun, that is, at roughly 15-year intervals. Unfortunately, on March 24, the date when this will occur, the planet will be too close to the Sun in the sky for us to observe.

However, in the evenings until mid-February and in the morning from late March we will be able to see Saturn with quite narrow, tilted rings.

Note that a small telescope is needed to see Saturn with or without its rings. If you don’t have one yourself, you can go on a night tour at a public observatory like Sydney Observatory or an observing session with a local astronomical group, such as those at Melbourne Observatory with the Astronomical Society of Victoria.

May and December: meteor showers

The two main meteor showers of the year are the Eta Aquariids and the Geminids.

In 2025, the Eta Aquariids are best seen on the morning of Wednesday May 7, while the Geminids will be most visible on the mornings of Sunday December 14 and Monday December 15.

This year, viewing conditions for both meteor showers are favourable, in the sense that there will be no bright Moon in the sky during those mornings. To see them, look towards the north-east (Eta Aquariids) and north (Geminids) before dawn starts brightening the sky.

The darker the sky you can find, the better. Keep away from street lights or any other light.

January, April and August: planets

The five planets you can see with the naked eye – Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn – move across the sky along a line called the ecliptic.

As the planets move, they sometimes appear to pass close to each other and take on interesting patterns. Of course, they only appear close from our point of view. In reality the planets are tens or hundreds of million kilometres apart.

In 2025, these patterns include:

• January 18–19: the brightest planet, Venus, is close to the ringed planet Saturn in the evening sky

• April 1–15: Mercury, Venus and Saturn form a slowly changing compact group in the eastern sky near sunrise

• August 12–13: Venus and Jupiter, the two brightest planets, are only separated by two moon-widths in the morning sky.

June and August: constellations

As the year progresses, different constellations appear in the evening sky. The perpetual chase of Orion and Scorpius (the hunter and the scorpion) across the sky was noted in 2024.

In 2025, keep an eye on the Southern Cross (known as Crux to astronomers) and Sagittarius (the archer).

The Southern Cross is the best-known constellation in the southern sky. It is easy to find, as it is made up of a compact group of bright stars in the shape of a cross.

Two pointer stars from the neighbouring constellation of Centaurus, the centaur, also help to show its position. From Sydney and further south, the Southern Cross is always above the horizon. However, in the evenings, it is best viewed around June, when it is high in the southern sky.

The constellation Sagittarius is next to Scorpius. In the evenings, it is best placed for observation in August, as at that time of the year it is directly overhead.

A join-the-dots look at the brightest stars of the constellation gives the impression of a teapot, and it is often referred to by that name. Sagittarius is an important constellation for Australian astronomers, as it contains the centre of the Milky Way galaxy.

The information in this article comes from the 2025 Australasian Sky Guide. The guide has monthly star maps and has much more information to help with viewing and enjoying the night sky from Australia and Aotearoa New Zealand.

Nick Lomb, Honorary Professor, Centre for Astrophysics, University of Southern Queensland

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In recent years, the field of quantum computing has been experiencing fast growth, with technological advances and large-scale investments regularly making the news.

The United Nations has designated 2025 as the International Year of Quantum Science and Technology.

The stakes are high – having quantum computers would mean access to tremendous data processing power compared to what we have today. They won’t replace your normal computer, but having this kind of awesome computing power will provide advances in medicine, chemistry, materials science and other fields.

So it’s no surprise that quantum computing is rapidly becoming a global race, and private industry and governments around the world are rushing to build the world’s first full-scale quantum computer. To achieve this, first we need to have stable and scalable quantum processors, or chips.

What is a quantum chip?

Everyday computers – like your laptop – are classical computers. They store and process information in the form of binary numbers or bits. A single bit can represent either 0 or 1.

By contrast, the basic unit of a quantum chip is a qubit. A quantum chip is made up of many qubits. These are typically subatomic particles such as electrons or photons, controlled and manipulated by specially designed electric and magnetic fields (known as control signals).

Unlike a bit, a qubit can be placed in a state of 0, 1, or a combination of both, also known as a “superposition state”. This distinct property allows quantum processors to store and process extremely large data sets exponentially faster than even the most powerful classical computer.

There are different ways to make qubits – one can use superconducting devices, semiconductors, photonics (light) or other approaches. Each method has its advantages and drawbacks.

Companies like IBM, Google and QueRa all have roadmaps to drastically scale up quantum processors by 2030.

Industry players that use semiconductors are Intel and Australian companies like Diraq and SQC. Key photonic quantum computer developers include PsiQuantum and Xanadu.

Qubits: quality versus quantity

How many qubits a quantum chip has is actually less important than the quality of the qubits.

A quantum chip made up of thousands of low-quality qubits will be unable to perform any useful computational task.

So, what makes for a quality qubit?

Qubits are very sensitive to unwanted disturbances, also known as errors or noise. This noise can come from many sources, including imperfections in the manufacturing process, control signal issues, changes in temperature, or even just an interaction with the qubit’s environment.

Being prone to errors reduces the reliability of a qubit, known as fidelity. For a quantum chip to stay stable long enough to perform complex computational tasks, it needs high-fidelity qubits.

When researchers compare the performance of different quantum chips, qubit fidelity is one of the crucial parameters they use.

How do we correct the errors?

Fortunately, we don’t have to build perfect qubits.

Over the last 30 years, researchers have designed theoretical techniques which use many imperfect or low-fidelity qubits to encode an abstract “logical qubit”. A logical qubit is protected from errors and, therefore, has very high fidelity. A useful quantum processor will be based on many logical qubits.

Nearly all major quantum chip developers are now putting these theories into practice, shifting their focus from qubits to logical qubits.

In 2024, many quantum computing researchers and companies made great progress on quantum error corrections, including Google, QueRa, IBM and CSIRO.

Quantum chips consisting of over 100 qubits are already available. They are being used by many researchers around the world to evaluate how good the current generation of quantum computers are and how they can be made better in future generations.

For now, developers have only made single logical qubits. It will likely take a few years to figure out how to put several logical qubits together into a quantum chip that can work coherently and solve complex real-world problems.

What will quantum computers be useful for?

A fully functional quantum processor would be able to solve extremely complex problems. This could lead to revolutionary impact in many areas of research, technology and economy.

Quantum computers could help us discover new medicines and advance medical research by finding new connections in clinical trial data or genetics that current computers don’t have enough processing power for.

They could also greatly improve the safety of various systems that use artificial intelligence algorithms, such as banking, military targeting and autonomous vehicles, to name a few.

To achieve all this, we first need to reach a milestone known as quantum supremacy – where a quantum processor solves a problem that would take a classical computer an impractical amount of time to do.

Late last year, Google’s quantum chip Willow finally demonstrated quantum supremacy for a contrived task – a computational problem designed to be hard for classical supercomputers but easy for quantum processors due to their distinct way of working.

Although it didn’t solve a useful real-world problem, it’s still a remarkable achievement and an important step in the right direction that’s taken years of research and development. After all, to run, one must first learn to walk.

What’s on the horizon for 2025 and beyond?

In the next few years, quantum chips will continue to scale up. Importantly, the next generation of quantum processors will be underpinned by logical qubits, able to tackle increasingly useful tasks.

While quantum hardware (that is, processors) has been progressing at a rapid pace, we also can’t overlook an enormous amount of research and development in the field of quantum software and algorithms.

Using quantum simulations on normal computers, researchers have been developing and testing various quantum algorithms. This will make quantum computing ready for useful applications when the quantum hardware catches up.

Building a full-scale quantum computer is a daunting task. It will require simultaneous advancements on many fronts, such as scaling up the number of qubits on a chip, improving the fidelity of the qubits, better error correction, quantum software, quantum algorithms, and several other sub-fields of quantum computing.

After years of remarkable foundational work, we can expect 2025 to bring new breakthroughs in all of the above.

Muhammad Usman, Head of Quantum Systems and Principal Research Scientist, CSIRO

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

May Gibbs is a household name in Australia. Her most famous book, Tales of Snugglepot and Cuddlepie, published in 1918, has never been out of print. Chances are you have read her work, or had it read to you. You’ll almost certainly have seen her personified native flora illustrations, which these days adorn everything from tea towels to pyjamas.

But have you heard of her predecessor, Louisa Anne Meredith? Like Gibbs, who began to publish in the decades following Meredith’s death in 1895, she drew her literary inspiration from the Australian landscape and crafted her own “brand” in its image.

Unlike Gibbs, though, Meredith’s illustrations were naturalistic. She rendered native Australian flora and fauna as characters for children’s literature, arguably beginning this tradition. But she didn’t “cutesify” them, or give them human features.

As researchers, we believe Meredith’s work for children should be recognised today for its innovations in genre: blending science writing, travel writing, poetry, and fairy tale. It is also anchored in a desire to shape the Australian child into the ideal young colonialist, by framing the land as unoccupied and in need of European care and management.

Dedicated to her craft

Louisa Anne Meredith (born Twamley in 1812) was an author and illustrator, born to a precariously middle-class family in Birmingham. Her father, Thomas Twamley, was a hard-working corn miller and dealer. Louisa’s mother (who shares her name) married him much to the dismay of her prominent family, the Merediths. They were descended from Welsh nobility.

At 22, Twamley’s first collection, Poems (1835), was positively received. English critic Leigh Hunt sang her praises in his 1837 poem, Blue-Stocking Revels, or The Feast of the Violets:

Then came young Twamley,
Nice sensitive thing,
Whose pen and whose pencil
give promise like spring.

By her mid-20s, Twamley had a handful of books in print under her maiden name, as well as a series of prints, sketches, paintings, colour plates and miniatures. She was entirely dedicated to her craft. Her fresh style of publishing original poems alongside accomplished naturalistic illustrations was something new.

Tasmanian life, for English readers

Twamley’s accomplishments were numerous by the time she married her maternal cousin, Charles Meredith. The couple emigrated to Australia in 1839. Meredith’s first book published from the colony, Notes and Sketches of New South Wales (1844), offered readers a “small fund of information on common every-day topics relating to these antipodean climes”. Louisa’s prose was accompanied by her original illustrations of colonial life.

By 1840, she settled in Tasmania and made the island her chief literary concern. She published a series of books depicting Tasmanian life, intended for readers there and back in England. In addition to her writing, Louisa was an active conservationist, as a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

While Meredith is largely remembered for her botanical illustrations and travel writing, she was prolific as a children’s writer. She published a range of books for children set in Tasmania, created from her colonial perspective. Public knowledge of her contributions to Australian children’s literary history is scarce outside Tasmania.

Meredith’s writing for children includes Loved and Lost! The True Story of a Short Life (1860), Grandmamma’s Verse Book for Young Australia (1878), Tasmanian Friends and Foes, Feathered, Furred, and Finned (1880), and Waratah Rhymes for Young Australia (1891).

Her work found young readers in both Australia and England. Her writing often dramatises this connection. Waratah Rhymes, for example, features a dedication in which she signs off from London in 1891 “to the young Colonists of to-day”, inviting their “warm welcome”.

Meredith’s contribution to the history of Australian children’s literature rests in her desire to write an account of “island life” for the white Australian colonial child. On the one hand, she reconfigured familiar European genres, such as the adventure novel (she was a fan of Gulliver’s Travels) and fairy tale. On the other, her aesthetic was distinctively colonial, expressed through Tasmanian fauna and flora.

In these books, the settler child is positioned as inquisitor and mini colonialist. Their discovery of the landscape through fictional encounters positions them to craft the nation in their image.

They reflect the “recurring narratives of nation-building” identified by Goorie and Koori critic and poet, Evelyn Araluen, as typical of Australian children’s literature. Araluen actively dismantles those narratives in her Stella prize-winning collection, Dropbear.

‘Cutesifying the bush’ vs naturalism

There is a striking resemblance between the works and interests of Meredith and Gibbs, who was also a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Yet there are also significant differences.

Meredith was interested in science. She wanted to render scientific concepts legible for young readers by, as she explained in Our Wild Flowers (1839), giving “a little pleasant information, without any difficult terms, or unexplained names”.

While Gibbs had her own successful career as a botanical illustrator, in her writing for children she concocted a magic formula for cutesifying the bush. Her style exemplifies what Araluen calls “intricate forms of kitsch”. Where Meredith’s illustrations for children take inspiration from naturalists such as John Gould, Gibbs puts bums on gumnuts and reins on seahorses.

While their aesthetics are very different, the work of both Meredith and Gibbs reflects a settler-colonial view of the environment that aims to domesticate the bush and manage land.

Meredith does this by importing the British-colonial apparatus of taxonomy, scientific vocabulary and botanical illustration, to order and explain a landscape perceived as being both wild and ripe for cultivation.

Many scholars, including Araluen, have argued Gibbs’ work embodies some of the worst aspects of colonisation. Her imagery and narrative, argues childhood researcher Joanne Faulkner, “reimagined the bush as a ‘home’ for colonizers, essentially ‘indigenising’ them in the image of white gumnut babies”.

These national emblems, embraced by many non-Indigenous Australians, were crafted on stolen land.

Exporting Australia’s children’s stories

In 1884, the Tasmanian government awarded Meredith a pension of £100 (the equivalent of around A$17,000 today) for “distinguished literary and artistic services” to the island.

Since Meredith, Australian children’s books and media have become lucrative exports. Typically, they sell an optimistic image of the sun-drenched “lucky country” to local and international audiences.

Meredith was cannily attuned to the importance of trading a desirable image of her colonial setting. She referenced Australia’s “sunny clime” and “fertile hill[s] and glade” in Waratah Rhymes.

Both Meredith and Gibbs were successful in the business of their writing, explicitly considering their work’s marketability. Meredith had her own monogram branding. She advertised the availability of Grandmama’s Verse Book for international distribution.

Gibbs commissioned a set of Gumnut Babies postcards, anticipating what would become a merchandising empire (the royalties support the works of The Northcott Society and Cerebral Palsy Alliance). It now includes crockery, bedspreads, plushies, pyjamas, stationery and more.

Last year, the Royal Society of Tasmania established the Louisa Anne Meredith Medal to be awarded every four years to a “person who excels in the field of arts or humanities, or both, with outstanding contributions evidenced by creative outputs”.

The Australian children’s literary market is just as internationally saleable as it was in Meredith’s time. Today, the global phenomenon of Bluey continues her legacy of charming children (and adults) around the world through personified Australian animals.

Lauren A. Weber, Lecturer in Literature, Language and Literacy, University of Wollongong and Sara Fernandes, Lecturer in English and Theatre Studies, The University of Melbourne

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Pompeii: Inside a Lost City at the National Museum of Australia in Canberra depicts life in the flourishing Roman city of Pompeii before it was destroyed by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 CE.

It pictures an ancient city frozen in time, eerily preserved by volcanic ash. It also tells the story of the city’s rediscovery in the late 16th century and the archaeological excavations that have been underway ever since.

The exhibition’s representation of a natural disaster that has reached timeless proportions has the potential to say a lot about the risks and costs of the urgent environmental crises facing humans today.

It offers a crucial opportunity for contemporary audiences to look at a lost city from the perspective of a world on the verge of collapse, but could have done more to consider what this level of destruction might mean now.

Ancient artifacts and technical precision

The exhibition’s main intention is to create human understanding across millennia. “Beauty and fashion were no less important in the 1st century CE than they are today”, says one wall-text.

A highlight for many visitors will be the authentic, vividly coloured frescoes recovered from the site. A wide curved screen plays a montage of digital images in situ near a selection of tiny clay pots holding the remains of pigments the painters used immediately before the eruption.

The exhibition is split into three parts. The first emphasises domestic life before the eruption. The second explores the remains of Pompeii and documents the work of researchers bringing the site and its fragments back to life.

These “before” and “after” sections are connected by a wide central corso (thoroughfare) reflecting the urban plan and textures of the ancient city. It provides a space of civic engagement and interaction between exhibition visitors and the residents of Pompeii.

The thoroughfare leads to a vast projection of Vesuvius that erupts every 15 minutes, giving the impression volcanic rain is falling across the exhibition. The panoramic area relies heavily on large-scale digital reconstructions and soundscapes to bring a contemporary treatment to an ancient story.

But it is more than a space of technical precision. Walking around in the crowd, the heat of visitors’ bodies moving around each other offers a nod to the unsettling and perhaps unspeakable experience faced by the 20,000 people estimated to live in Pompeii at the time of the eruption.

A small alcove to the side of the exhibition holds historical copies of faceless casts of four people and a dog in their moments of death.

Most Pompeiians survived by fleeing the city when the early tremors hit, but many did not. Over a thousand victims have been excavated. In 1863, a technique was developed to inject plaster into the ash cavities left by the eruption to create casts from those who perished. This process has been extensively developed and analysed in the centuries since, and laser scanners and 3D printers now make more accurate casts.

Beautiful, often ordinary

Exhibition designers and curators have relied as much on spectacle as they have on information to create an emotive atmosphere to accentuate the feeling of travelling through time and space.

This effect is not solely produced through media supplementation but by the objects on display – including the terrible casts but also by the decayed frescoes, from which ever-young faces return our gaze.

The excavated artifacts are beautiful, often ordinary: things like tweezers, cups, storage containers and lamps. Other everyday but less familiar items include small, mass-produced figurines of deities included in small shrines in a kitchen space or atrium.

Visitors can lean into displays to consider how similar – or different – the objects and the lifestyles they represent are from our own.

They complement the only existing eyewitness account of the eruption, written by Pliny the Younger:

People bewailed their own fate or that of their relatives, and there were some who prayed for death in their terror of dying. Many besought the aid of the gods, but still more imagined there were no gods left, and that the universe was plunged into eternal darkness for evermore.

This description is presented in large text in a small anteroom that has the purpose of helping visitors suspend disbelief as they enter the exhibition. There are no objects in this room.

The moment of pause it demands prepares visitors to:

Walk the city streets and immerse yourself in both the ancient city and the archaeological site – but beware the ever-present volcano.

Our own at-risk planet

There is a certain irony in being encouraged to step out of our everyday life to enter a past world in which we are directed to find common experiences. This is more a function of immersive blockbuster exhibitions in general than it is a complaint of Pompeii.

Pompeii is a polished, beautiful exhibition about an endlessly fascinating topic that will draw, enthral and enlighten crowds.

And yet, Pompeii misses an opportunity to demonstrate connections between a long dead civilisation and our own at-risk planet. Its approach to building human understanding across time could have been extended to ask visitors to consider how they would react to an equivalent catastrophe or what it might mean today.

We do not need to look far to generate a conversation about crises in different eras: last month, we saw the 50th anniversary of Cyclone Tracy; we are now five years on from the Black Summer bushfires.

These events are featured in the museum’s Great Southern Land exhibition, which shows the damage they caused to communities as well as their legacies. It also features salvaged artifacts with similar everyday characteristics to those included in Pompeii.

This exhibition makes the case that distant civilisations are not too far from our own. But by placing us in a highly immersive exhibition we are – despite its opposite intention – disconnected from our own daily lives, and the true connection we have to the past. This can weaken society’s collective will to take the urgent action required if we are to survive the next 2,000 years.

Pompeii: Inside A Lost City Package is at the National Museum of Australia, Canberra, until May 4.

Kylie Message, Professor of Public Humanities and Director of the ANU Humanities Research Centre, Australian National University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The Bob Dylan biopic “A Complete Unknown,” starring Timothée Chalamet, focuses on Dylan’s early 1960s transition from idiosyncratic singer of folk songs to internationally renowned singer-songwriter.

As a music historian, I’ve always respected one decision of Dylan’s in particular – one that kicked off the young artist’s most turbulent and significant period of creative activity.

Sixty years ago, on Halloween Night 1964, a 23-year-old Dylan took the stage at New York City’s Philharmonic Hall. He had become a star within the niche genre of revivalist folk music. But by 1964 Dylan was building a much larger fanbase through performing and recording his own songs.

Dylan presented a solo set, mixing material he had previously recorded with some new songs. Representatives from his label, Columbia Records, were on hand to record the concert, with the intent to release the live show as his fifth official album.

It would have been a logical successor to Dylan’s four other Columbia albums. With the exception of one track, “Corrina, Corrina,” those albums, taken together, featured exclusively solo acoustic performances.

But at the end of 1964, Columbia shelved the recording of the Philharmonic Hall concert. Dylan had decided that he wanted to make a different kind of music.

From Minnesota to Manhattan

Two-and-a-half years earlier, Dylan, then just 20 years old, started earning acclaim within New York City’s folk music community. At the time, the folk music revival was taking place in cities across the country, but Manhattan’s Greenwich Village was the movement’s beating heart.

Mingling with and drawing inspiration from other folk musicians, Dylan, who had recently moved to Manhattan from Minnesota, secured his first gig at Gerde’s Folk City on April 11, 1961. Dylan appeared in various other Greenwich Village music clubs, performing folk songs, ballads and blues. He aspired to become, like his hero Woody Guthrie, a self-contained artist who could employ vocals, guitar and harmonica to interpret the musical heritage of “the old, weird America,” an adage coined by critic Greil Marcus to describe Dylan’s early repertoire, which was composed of material learned from prewar songbooks, records and musicians.

While Dylan’s versions of older songs were undeniably captivating, he later acknowledged that some of his peers in the early 1960s folk music scene – specifically, Mike Seeger – were better at replicating traditional instrumental and vocal styles.

Dylan, however, realized he had an unrivaled facility for writing and performing new songs.

In October 1961, veteran talent scout John Hammond signed Dylan to record for Columbia. His eponymous debut, released in March 1962, featured interpretations of traditional ballads and blues, with just two original compositions. That album sold only 5,000 copies, leading some Columbia officials to refer to the Dylan contract as “Hammond’s Folly.”

Full steam ahead

Flipping the formula of its predecessor, Dylan’s 1963 follow-up album, “The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan,” offered 11 originals by Dylan and just two traditional songs. The powerful collection combined songs about relationships with original protest songs, including his breakthrough “Blowin’ in the Wind.”

“The Times They Are A-Changin’,” his third release, exclusively showcased Dylan’s own compositions.

Dylan’s creative output continued. As he testified in “Restless Farewell,” the closing track for “The Times They Are A-Changin’,” “My feet are now fast / and point away from the past.”

Released just six months after “The Times,” Dylan’s fourth Columbia album, “Another Side of Bob Dylan,” featured solo acoustic recordings of original songs that were lyrically adventurous and less focused on current events. As suggested in his song “My Back Pages,” he was now rejecting the notion that he could – or should – speak for his generation.

Bringing it all together

By the end of 1964, Dylan yearned to break away permanently from the constraints of the folk genre – and from the notion of “genre” altogether. He wanted to subvert the expectations of audiences and to rebel against music industry forces intent on pigeonholing him and his work.

The Philharmonic Hall concert went off without a hitch, but Dylan refused to let Columbia turn it into an album. The recording wouldn’t generate an official release for another four decades.

Instead, in January 1965, Dylan entered Columbia’s Studio A to record his fifth album, “Bringing It All Back Home.” But this time, he embraced the electric rock sound that had energized America in the wake of Beatlemania. That album introduced songs with stream-of-consciousness lyrics featuring surreal imagery, and on many of the songs Dylan performed with the accompaniment of a rock band.

“Bringing It All Back Home,” released in March 1965, set the tone for Dylan’s next two albums: “Highway 61 Revisited,” in August 1965, and “Blonde on Blonde,” in June 1966. Critics and fans have long considered these latter three albums – pulsing with what the singer-songwriter himself called “that thin, that wild mercury sound” – as among the greatest albums of the rock era.

On July 25, 1965, at the Newport Folk Festival, Dylan invited members of the Paul Butterfield Blues Band on stage to accompany three songs. Since the genre expectations for folk music during that era involved acoustic instrumentation, the audience was unprepared for Dylan’s loud performances. Some critics deemed the set an act of heresy, an affront to folk music propriety. The next year, Dylan embarked on a tour of the U.K., and an audience member at the Manchester stop infamously heckled him for abandoning folk music, crying out, “Judas!”

Yet the creative risks undertaken by Dylan during this period inspired countless other musicians: rock acts such as the Beatles, the Animals and the Byrds; pop acts such as Stevie Wonder, Johnny Rivers and Sonny and Cher; and country singers such as Johnny Cash.

Acknowledging the bar that Dylan’s songwriting set, Cash, in his liner notes to Dylan’s 1969 album “Nashville Skyline,” wrote, “Here-in is a hell of a poet.”

Enlivened by Dylan’s example, many musicians went on to experiment with their own sound and style, while artists across a range of genres would pay homage to Dylan through performing and recording his songs.

In 2016, Dylan received the Nobel Prize in literature “for having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition.” His early exploration of this tradition can be heard on his first four Columbia albums – records that laid the groundwork for Dylan’s august career.

Back in 1964, Dylan was the talk of Greenwich Village.

But now, because he never rested on his laurels, he’s the toast of the world.

This article was updated to correct the name of album “Blonde on Blonde.”

Ted Olson, Professor of Appalachian Studies and Bluegrass, Old-Time and Roots Music Studies, East Tennessee State University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Imagine a summer holiday at a seaside resort, with days spent sunbathing, reading books, exploring nature and chatting with friends.

Sounds like it could be anywhere in Australia or New Zealand in January, doesn’t it?

This is also how the Roman emperor Julian spent his summers in the 4th century CE. Towards the end of 357 CE, Julian wrote a letter to his friend Evagrius, telling him how he spent his holidays at his grandmother’s estate as a boy and young man:

Very peaceful it is to lie down there and glance into some book, and then, while resting one’s eyes, it is very agreeable to gaze at the ships and the sea.

When I was still hardly more than a boy I thought that this was the most delightful summer residence, for it has, moreover, excellent springs and a charming bath and garden and trees.

As Julian got older, though, he had less time for summer holidays. Work consumed him. Even when he was on a break, he couldn’t fully relax.

This might sound familiar, too. It seems very little has changed from the days of the ancient Greek and Roman empires when it comes to finding time to unwind – and being on holidays, too.

Finding time for a break

Taking time off was important in ancient Greek and Roman times. Even Greek and Roman slaves were permitted to take a few holidays each year.

Not everyone could enjoy their holidays, however.

In 162 CE, Marcus Aurelius, then emperor of Rome, took four days of holiday at a resort in Alsium, a city on the coast of modern-day Italy.

According to his friend Marcus Cornelius Fronto (c. 95-166 CE), though, the emperor could not stop working. In a letter, Fronto criticises Marcus for continuing to work hard rather than sleeping in, exploring the seaside, rowing on the ocean, bathing and feasting on seafood.

Fronto amusingly says that Marcus, rather than enjoy his holiday, has instead “declared war on play, relaxation, good living, and pleasure”.

Going to the seaside

Relaxing by the coast was one of the things people in ancient Greece and Rome most enjoyed doing in the summer.

The rich built summer residences on the coast, while people of all walks of life flocked to seaside resorts to enjoy the fresh air and cool water.

The orator Libanius (314-393 CE) wrote that the people who really enjoy life the most are those who have the freedom to “drive to their estates, visit other towns, buy land, and visit the seaside”.

Health tourism was also a popular reason why people came to the seaside. Many ancient doctors recommended sea water and air as cures for all kinds of health problems, especially those related to the skin and respiratory system.

For example, the doctor Aretaeus of Cappadocia (c. 150-200 CE) recommended bathing in sea water, wrestling on sand and living by the sea as therapies for those who get frequent headaches.

Travelling abroad

Visiting foreign places was another of the things people in ancient Greece and Rome most enjoyed doing on their summer holidays.

For the Romans, trips to see Greece – and in particular Athens – were especially popular.

The Roman general Germanicus (15 BCE–19 CE) went on a tour of Greece in 18 CE, travelling from Athens eastward to Euboea, Lesbos, the coast of Asia Minor and then to Byzantium and Pontus.

According to the Roman historian Tacitus, Germanicus was motivated by a desire to see famous ancient sites. Like many Romans, he was fascinated by the old stories of the Greek past, so he was “eager to make the acquaintance of those ancient and storied regions”.

Another popular destination for ancient Greeks and Romans was Egypt, which had always been regarded as a land of wonder.

Roman tourists could catch regular boats from Puteoli to the great Egyptian city Alexandria. The trip took anywhere from one to two weeks, stopping along the way in Sicily and Malta.

Once there, the highlights were typically the great Nile River and Pyramids. Tourists marvelled at the immense temples and walls of hieroglyphic writing.

When Germanicus visited Egypt in 19 CE, he was so curious about the meaning of the hieroglyphics that he asked an old Egyptian priest to translate some for him.

In Alexandria, another attraction was the tomb of Alexander the Great (356-323 BCE). His body was stored in honey in a coffin made of glass. Ordinary tourists were not allowed to visit it, but VIPs like Roman emperors were.

Tourists might also have enjoyed the different vibe in Alexandria. According to the Greek orator Dio of Prusa (c. 40-110/120 CE), the atmosphere in the coastal city was relaxed, with plenty of music, chariot racing and good food.

Lazy summer days

We can probably all relate to what the writer Pliny the Younger (61/62-112 BCE) said about his summer break.

Writing on a holiday in Tuscany, he said he can only work “in the lazy way to be expected during a summer holiday”. Working any other way was simply not possible. Many of us will be able to relate to that!

Konstantine Panegyres, McKenzie Postdoctoral Fellow, researching Greco-Roman antiquity, The University of Melbourne

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Sunglasses, or dark glasses, have always guarded against strong sunlight, but is there more to “shades” than we think?

The pupils of our eyes are delicate and react immediately to strong lights. Protecting them against light – even the brilliance reflected off snow – is important for everyone. Himalayan mountaineers wear goggles for this exact purpose.

Protection is partly the function of sunglasses. But dark or coloured lens glasses have become fashion accessories and personal signature items. Think of the vast and famous collector of sunglasses Elton John, with his pink lensed heart-shaped extravaganzas and many others.

When did this interest in protecting the eyes begin, and at what point did dark glasses become a social statement as well as physical protection?

Ancient traditions

The Roman Emperor Nero is reported as holding polished gemstones to his eyes for sun protection as he watched fighting gladiators.

We know Canadian far north Copper Inuit and Alaskan Yupik wore snow goggles of many kinds made of antlers or whalebone and with tiny horizontal slits. Wearers looked through these and they were protected against the snow’s brilliant light when hunting. At the same time the very narrow eye holes helped them to focus on their prey.

In 12th century China, judges wore sunglasses with smoked quartz lenses to hide their facial expressions – perhaps to retain their dignity or not convey emotions.

Very early eyeglasses were produced in Venice with its longstanding skills in glass making concentrated on the still famous islands of Murano.

In the 18th century, noble Venetian ladies held green coloured glasses in tortoiseshell frames to their eyes, a design similar to a hand-held mirror. These vetri da gondola (glasses for gondola) or da dama (for ladies) were used to protect their eyes and those of their children from sunlight, as gondoliers paddled them through the Venetian canals.

Glasses, celebrity and war

Protection of the eye takes an interesting turn when movie making begins. Film stars’ eyes became strained as artificial studio set lights were very strong. They began to wear tinted glasses outside the studio as their eyes became sore.

As Hollywood began to make celebrities of these stars, they sought out privacy by wearing dark glasses on public occasions as well.

Their looks were crucial to the industry.

One thinks of the aloof Greta Garbo who hid behind her glasses to stop interaction with fans. Audrey Hepburn was another star well known for her Oliver Goldsmith dark glasses. She peered over these in many movies and also wore them as high fashion accessories.

The first anti-glare glasses, originally with green glass blocking U/V rays, were Ray-Bans, patented in 1939 as Aviators for the US Army Air Corps. Their shapes reduced light from any angle. They were taken up by the military and became the signature style of General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander of US Forces in the Pacific, stationed in Brisbane during the second world war.

With these glasses, well-tailored khaki uniforms and peaked caps, wearers exuded a vigorous masculine attractiveness – although the outfits were not exactly fashion.

Dark glasses were to become increasingly popular accessories from the late 1920s. They took on new life as essential male and female fashions in the 60s and 70s. Men and women celebrities and style icons like Jacqueline Kennedy wore her huge designer outsize glasses as personal fashion items.

Rich with meaning

There are hundreds of different designs on the market today. Many can be picked up at any chemist.

Dark glasses are everywhere: worn on the street, for driving, on the beach and on the tennis court.

Sunglasses are rich with different meanings. They protect from harsh sunlight and shield wearers from close contact with others. They also allow users to observe others without detection. They are striking accessories loved by celebrities, movie stars and fashionable influencers of all kinds.

For some celebrities, sunglasses have become part of their character.

They project an almost powerful aura for someone like Anna Wintour of Vogue. For Stevie Wonder, who wears sunglasses because he is legally blind, they have come to symbolise his particular personality, his unique ability and his iconic status.

Margaret Maynard, Associate Professor, School of Communication and the Arts, The University of Queensland

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

It’s the morning after a big night and you’re feeling the effects of too much alcohol.

So it can be tempting to “refresh” and take the edge off a hangover with a swim at the beach, or a dip in the cool waters of your local river or pool.

But you might want to think twice.

The day after heavy drinking can affect your body, energy levels and perception of risk in many ways. This means you’re more likely to drown or make careless decisions – even without high levels of alcohol in your blood.

Alcohol + water + summer = drowning

Alcohol is one of the main reasons why someone’s more likely to die due to drowning. And Australians consume a lot of it, including around the water.

The risk of drowning, and injury, including incidents involving alcohol, dramatically increases over the summer festive period – in particular on public holidays and long weekends.

Among people aged 18 and over who drowned in rivers where alcohol was involved, we found some 40% had a blood alcohol concentration of at least 0.20%. That’s four times the upper legal limit of 0.05% when driving a car on a full licence.

When we breathalysed people at four Australian rivers, we found higher levels of blood alcohol with higher temperatures, and particularly on public holidays.

At the beach, intoxication due to alcohol and/or drugs is involved in 23% of drowning deaths with an average blood alcohol concentration of 0.19%.

How about if you’re hungover?

Getting alcohol out of your body is a relatively slow process. On average, alcohol is metabolised at a rate of 0.015% per hour. So if someone stops drinking at 2am with a blood alcohol concentration of 0.20%, their alcohol levels don’t drop to zero until 4pm the next day.

Although hangovers can vary from person to person, typical symptoms include headache, muscle aches, fatigue, weakness, thirst, nausea, stomach pain, vertigo, irritability, sensitivity to light and sound, anxiety, sweating and increased blood pressure.

As well as feeling a bit dusty, the day after an evening of heavy drinking, you’re not so good at identifying risks and reacting to them.

In a pool, this might mean not noticing it’s too shallow to dive safely. In natural waterways, this might mean not noticing a strong river current or a rip current at the beach. Or someone might notice these hazards but swim or dive in anyway.

In one study, we found that after a four-day Australian music festival where people drank heavily, even people who were sober (no longer had alcohol in their blood) were still affected.

Compared to baseline tests in the lab we ran three weeks before the festival, people who were sober the day after the festival had faster reaction times in a test to gauge their attention. But they made more mistakes. This suggests hangovers coupled with fatigue lead to quicker but more careless behaviour.

In and around water this could be the difference between life and death.

Positive blood alcohol readings, including of alcohol from the night before, are commonly implicated in drowning deaths as a result of risky behaviours such as jumping into the water, both at a river and along the coast. Jumping can cause physical injury or render you unconscious, leading to drowning.

Alcohol, including the day after drinking, can also make drowning more likely for a number of other reasons. It also reduces people’s coordination and reaction times.

What else is going on?

Alcohol makes the blood vessels near your skin open up (dilate). So more blood flows into them, making you feel hot. This means you may stay in colder water for longer, increasing your risk of hypothermia.

Alcohol can even make CPR (cardiopulmonary resuscitation) less effective, should you need to be resuscitated.

Normally, your body controls levels of certain minerals (or electrolytes) in the blood. But electrolyte imbalance is common after heavy drinking, including the day after. It’s the reason why hangover symptoms such as muscle pain can lead to cramps in your arms or legs. This can become dangerous when being in or on the water.

Low blood sugar levels the day after drinking is also common. This can lead to people becoming exhausted more quickly when doing physical activities, including swimming.

Other hazards include cold water, high waves and deep water, all of which your body may not be capable of dealing with if you’re feeling the effects of a big night.

What can we do about it?

Authorities regularly warn about the dangers of alcohol intoxication and being near the water. Young people and men are often targeted because these are the groups more likely to drown where alcohol is involved.

Beaches may have alcohol-free zones. Rivers rarely have the same rules, despite similar dangers.

How to stay safe around water if you’re drinking

So take care this summer and stay out of the water if you’re not feeling your best:

• do your swimming before your drinking
• look out for your mates, especially ones who may have had a few too many or are hungover
• avoid getting back into the water after you’ve drunk alcohol or if you’re not feeling your best the next day.

Amy Peden, NHMRC Research Fellow, School of Population Health & co-founder UNSW Beach Safety Research Group, UNSW Sydney; Emmanuel Kuntsche, Director of the Centre for Alcohol Policy Research, La Trobe University, and Jasmin C. Lawes, Adjunct Senior Lecturer, UNSW Beach Safety Research Group, UNSW Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

If you’re back in the job market, or looking for your first position after graduating, you’ll need to think about how to ace a job interview.

Getting shortlisted for interview is a significant achievement on its own, given managers routinely consider hundreds of other applicants for each position. But to interview well, you need to be prepared, confident (but not arrogant) and stand out from other applicants.

A good job interview means assuring a prospective employer you can fit into their company, have the skills to do or adapt to the job, and can work well with others.

So, how can you put your best foot forward in a job interview? Here are five tips.

1. Talk about your cultural and organisational fit

Explain how you would be a great fit in the new job.

Establishing your fit doesn’t mean talking up your skills, but convincing the panel you are the right person to join the company.

Make it clear you know what the company does well (more on that later), offer examples of where you’ve worked well in teams before, and explain how you could contribute to the organisation’s mission, goals and achievements.

2. Prepare answers for important questions

They will almost certainly ask: “why should we hire you?”

Variations of this question include: “why are you the best person for this job?” and “why do you want this job?”

You may be asked these kinds of questions right at the start of your interview.

It’s not an invitation to brag about what you have done or exaggerate your claims. It’s an opportunity to demonstrate how you would fit into the company with your skills, track record and personal values.

This is your chance to outline your skills and position yourself as the best person for the job.

But these questions also allow you to give an early indication about whether your working style and personal values align with the organisation’s values.

3. Show your enthusiasm and commitment

It is important to show you are enthusiastic and excited to be part of their organisation.

You are looking to give your employer a sense of your personality and your interest in not just the job but the company.

What is it about this company’s work that interests you? Can you name examples of things they’ve done well in the past? If you got the job, why would you be proud to work there?

4. Do your homework

Demonstrate you have read up on the company and people and be specific about what you can offer as a future employee.

Research the company and the person who is interviewing you. Make it clear you understand the business and its recent output, as well as the person and their preferences.

Don’t simply regurgitate information about the company from their website. Instead, come up with some interesting questions such as how they’ve managed a big change in the industry, or how they are adapting to a new technology.

The company will probably research or “cybervet” you. Ensure your public profile and other accessible information is professional and shows you at your best. Lose the wild party pics.

5. Give ‘I’ answers

“I” answers show how your skills would benefit the company and suit the position. You could talk, for example, about how you’re passionate about helping people, so you did an internship in aged care administration during your business studies and also volunteered at your local aged care home.

Or that you won an award in recognition of your contribution to your industry, and explain what you did that won you this award.

The story of you as a talented and committed job seeker should not only be compelling but have an internal narrative logic. For example:

In my university degree, I undertook training in project management software. As part of my internship, I was responsible for project scheduling, so I developed a very good working knowledge of this software. My experience supports me to effectively use project management software in this new role.

Research has also shown doing an internship gives you a better chance of winning a job.

If you’ve got gaps in your resume, fold them into your narrative about how you have built your experiences, education, skills and capacities. For example,

To gain experience in learning other languages and working in different countries, I travelled extensively for my gap year. I then started my full-time university studies in marketing while working part-time in the retail industry.

A job interview is not just about how well you did in your studies or your previous job but how you can build your skills and capabilities into a sustainable career in your new role. The interviewer is looking for how you can add value to the organisation.

Kerry Brown, Professor of Employment and Industry, School of Business and Law, Edith Cowan University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Eating rabbit, camel, carp, feral cat, deer and cane toad might sound extreme to some, but it’s gaining attention as a solution to tackle the growing impact of invasive species.

Now, Tony Armstrong hosts the ABC series Eat the Invaders, inspired by artist Kirsha Kaechele’s 2019 cookbook and MONA exhibition Eat the Problem.

Over the course of the series, Armstrong talks to chefs, conservationists, Indigenous Elders, researchers, food producers and the general public to explore the idea of eating these species to reduce their populations.

Over each of the six episodes, the show features a different invasive species, transforming them from something perceived as an unwanted pest into a desirable food you may order off a menu.

Invasive species in Australia

Episode one poetically begins at ground zero of the rabbit invasion, Barwon Park in Winchelsea, Victoria, where 24 rabbits were introduced in 1859.

Ever since, invasive species like the rabbit have caused significant harm in Australia, now impacting 82% of our threatened species – a rate much higher than global norms. Feral cats and foxes are responsible for the deaths of 2.6 billion native vertebrates annually.

Invasive species disproportionately affect Indigenous lands in Australia compared to the global average, emphasising their cultural toll.

In the agricultural sector, invasive species cause significant damage, and cost Australian producers up to A$5.3 billion in management costs and losses annually.

Cane toads have toxic skin that poisons native predators like goannas, crocodiles and quolls, who lack natural defences.

To combat this, researchers are testing innovative solutions, such as “cane toad sausages”, to train native mammals and reptiles to avoid the toxic toads.

Could invasive species belong on our plates too?

I’ll eat a cow, but not a camel

While we may accept animals like cows, chickens or pigs as food, species like rabbit, camel and carp remain off the menu for many Australians.

This is a form of cognitive dissonance, where we perceive some animals as pests but are also hesitant at the idea of turning them into food.

Adding invasive species back into culinary culture can increase public awareness of invasive species, assist in early detection and response efforts, and boost local economies.

Re-branding invasive species as a culinary opportunity isn’t a new concept. Carp is often sold in America under the name “copi”.

This idea is explored during episode three, as a marketing company is given an opportunity to re-brand cane toad meat. The final hypothetical product is a packaged “toad nugget” product called “Croaky Crunchers”.

Eating invasive species

A central theme of Eat the Invaders is that eating invasive species is good for the environment, while also being delicious.

Armstrong meets up with the Country Women’s Association to learn about how rabbits were once common on Australian dinner tables, while cooking a tomato and rabbit stew.

Carp is a staple food in China and Europe but is rarely found in Australian supermarkets.

Here, carp appears in fish and chips and as part of an experimental dish at MONA, served with invasive weeds and “edible plastic” made from corn flour and the invasive plant kudzu.

Bob Katter might not be the first person you’d expect to make a cameo, but it makes sense given far-north Queensland is one of the most densely populated regions for cane toads in Australia.

The main challenge with eating cane toads is the risk of bufotoxin, which is toxic to humans. Armstrong meets a former chef who prepares and eats cane toad – but Armstrong can’t get the meat safety-tested to try it himself.

Establishing safe processing, like Japan’s fugu system of safely processing the tetrodotoxin poison from puffer fish, could help to create an export market for toads. This might benefit conservation by reducing pressure on native frogs harvested in Indonesia and Vietnam.

The show stops short of serving feral cats on the menu at MONA.

Instead, Armstrong travels to Kiwirrkurra Country in the Gibson Desert and joins the Kiwirrkurra rangers and cat hunters who protect wildlife like the vulnerable greater bilby by hunting feral cats.

They show him how the feral cats are prepared as food. He told the Guardian “it tasted like the most delicious rotisserie chicken I’ve ever had”.

Worth the watch

Changing our diets is a simple yet powerful way to tackle Australia’s extinction crisis. Eat the Invaders creatively explores this idea.

Armstrong’s style is approachable and engaging for people who are unfamiliar with the impact of invasive species. Especially as he himself is trying many of these species for the first time.

The show balances perspectives on food, conservation, Indigenous knowledge, and consumer experiences, creating a well-rounded narrative.

Throughout the show, Armstrong highlights the profound impact of invasive species on Indigenous Australians’ connection to Country, and how these species disrupt ecosystems and threaten culturally significant totem species.

While eating invasive species is innovative, it’s not a standalone solution.

As invasive species spread, management often shifts from eradication to long-term control. Policy contradictions, like deer being protected under some laws but considered threats in others, complicate management efforts.

Promoting invasive species consumption through eating them could help, but risks creating a business case to maintain or even expand invasive populations, undermining eradication goals.

Eat the Invaders is on the ABC from tonight.

Carla Archibald, Research Fellow, Conservation Science, Deakin University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Anthony Sharwood’s Kościuszko: The Incredible Life of the Man Behind the Mountain is far more than a biography of an extraordinary historical figure. It is a trip through time, continents and cultural landscapes. It blends the life of Tadeusz Kościuszko (1746–1817) – a nobleman, military engineer, revolutionary and humanist – with contemporary debates about identity, reconciliation and memory.

Sharwood invites readers to join him on a journey to uncover who Kościuszko was, why his name sits atop Australia’s highest mountain, and whether it should remain there.

Review: Kosciuszko: The Incredible Life of the Man Behind the Mountain – Anthony Sharwoood (Hachette)

Kościuszko is an enigmatic figure to everyone but the citizens of his native Poland, though he is also celebrated as a hero in America, where he is known for his role in the American rebellion against the British.

His life was defined by his unwavering commitment to justice and human rights. In Poland, he led the 1794 Kościuszko Uprising against Russian domination and advocated for social reforms. He fought to end Polish serfdom. He dedicated his American estate to the education and emancipation of African American slaves, although his will was never fully executed.

Sharwood explores Kościuszko’s life with a unique narrative structure, inviting readers to explore his subject’s legacy as though they are travelling alongside him. The biography begins with a simple yet intriguing question: “Who was the Kosciuszko fella?”

Sharwood’s answer takes readers to the heart of the man who became a symbol of liberty and equality, earning the admiration of luminaries such as Thomas Jefferson and George Washington. Yet the book is as much about Australia and its Indigenous people as it is about Kościuszko himself. It offers a richly layered exploration of history, identity and the power of names.

A champion of liberty and equality

Sharwood’s approach is refreshingly unconventional. Rather than presenting a linear historical narrative, he embarks on a road trip through Kościuszko’s life and the places that shaped it. Along the way, we learn of Kościuszko’s early life in Lithuania and Poland, his education in France, and his commitment to Enlightenment ideals.

Starting in America, Sharwood traces Kościuszko’s rise as a military engineer during the American War of Independence. His account of the period Kościuszko spent in America, from 1776 to 1784, is vividly detailed. As a colonel in the Continental Army, Kościuszko played a critical role in fortifying Saratoga and West Point. He emerges as a man of principle, who not only fought for American independence, but sought to challenge the contradictions of its society.

His will, which directed his American assets to be used for freeing and educating enslaved people, becomes a focal point in the narrative. Sharwood uses it to explore Kościuszko’s unwavering commitment to human rights, painting him as a figure who transcended the cultural constraints of his time.

The narrative then moves to Poland, where Kościuszko’s leadership during the 1794 uprising against Russian and Prussian forces solidified his status as a national hero. Despite his military brilliance and political vision, Kościuszko’s efforts to preserve Polish independence were thwarted by the effects of successive partitions of Poland in 1772, 1793 and 1795, which erased the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth of his childhood from the map of Europe.

Sharwood vividly captures the drama and tragedy of this period, portraying Kościuszko as a charismatic leader whose vision for equality inspired soldiers and peasants alike. Despite his eventual defeat and imprisonment, Kościuszko’s ideals endured, making him a symbol of resistance against oppression. Sharwood’s storytelling shines in these sections, blending research with compelling prose that brings history to life.

History, identity, naming

What sets this biography apart is its integration of Kościuszko’s story with the contemporary debate over the naming of Mount Kosciuszko.

Kościuszko never set foot on the Australian continent. The mountain was named in 1840, long after his death, by Polish explorer Paul Strzelecki (1797-1873), who was inspired by Kościuszko’s ideals. The naming is now at the centre of discussions about Indigenous recognition.

Sharwood highlights the cultural significance of the Snowy Mountains for the Ngarigo people. He explores their ancient customs, their displacement during European colonisation, and their perspectives on the future of the mountain’s name. By engaging with traditional owners, such as Ngarigo elder Cheryl Davison, Sharwood adds depth to the narrative, situating the debate within broader questions of reconciliation and historical justice.

Sharwood’s ability to connect Kościuszko’s legacy with contemporary issues facing Australia is one of the book’s greatest strengths. He explores how names shape our understanding of history and identity, asking whether Kościuszko’s name should remain on the mountain or be replaced with an Indigenous name. His nuanced approach reflects the complexity of the question. He acknowledges the multiple names used by different Indigenous clans, such as Kunama Namadgi and Tar Gan Gil. He also considers what Kościuszko himself might have wanted.

Sharwood refrains from providing definitive answers. Instead, he encourages readers to reflect on the layers of history and meaning embedded in the mountain.

The book’s road-trip structure enhances its accessibility and emotional resonance. Sharwood takes readers from Poland to Switzerland, where Kościuszko spent his final years, and to the United States, where his ideals of liberty and equality continue to inspire. The journey extends to the town of Kosciusko, Mississippi (notably spelled without the “z”), the birthplace of Oprah Winfrey, adding a quirky yet meaningful connection to Kościuszko’s global legacy. Sharwood’s travels culminate in Australia, where he retraces Strzelecki’s footsteps and delves into the history of the Snowy Mountains.

This personal approach makes the biography feel intimate and relatable, as though readers are discovering Kościuszko’s story alongside the author. Sharwood’s writing is as engaging as it is informative. His journalistic background is evident in his ability to distil complex historical events into narratives that are both compelling and easy to follow.

At the same time, his passion for the Australian High Country, showcased in previous works From Snow to Ash and The Brumby Wars, enriches his exploration of Mount Kosciuszko. His vivid descriptions of the landscape, combined with his deep respect for its cultural significance, create a powerful sense of place that anchors the narrative.

Despite its many strengths, the book does have its limitations. Sharwood’s admiration for Kościuszko occasionally verges on romanticisation, portraying him as an almost flawless hero. While this approach underscores Kościuszko’s enduring appeal, it sometimes oversimplifies the complexities of his character and his historical context. Sharwood has crafted an unconventional biography that is as thought-provoking as it is inspiring, but his approach can be irritating, especially to a historian seeking greater detail.

Kościuszko’s will, for example, is celebrated as a bold statement of equality, but the practical challenges that prevented its execution receive less attention. Similarly, the book’s road-trip format, while engaging, can feel disjointed, with some of the transitions between historical and contemporary narratives lacking fluidity.

The book nevertheless succeeds in its primary goal. It illuminates the life and legacy of a remarkable figure, while prompting readers to consider the broader implications of his story. Sharwood’s exploration of Kościuszko’s ideals of liberty, equality and justice resonates deeply in a world still grappling with these issues. His engagement with the Indigenous history of the Snowy Mountains adds a vital layer of complexity to the narrative, reminding readers that history is never one-dimensional.

In celebrating Kościuszko, Sharwood invites Australians to reflect on their own values and history. The parallels between Kościuszko’s life and the Australian ethos – resilience, fairness, unity, the championing of the underdog – underscore why his name, carried by Australia’s highest mountain, continues to inspire. By framing Kościuszko within this cultural narrative, Sharwood not only honours the man himself, but affirms the enduring relevance of these ideals in contemporary Australian society.

For those interested in history and culture, or the intersections between the two, Sharwood’s biography is essential reading. Whether or not Kościuszko’s name remains on Australia’s highest mountain, his legacy as a champion of human rights and a symbol of resistance will endure.

Darius von Guttner Sporzynski, Researcher, Historian, Australian Catholic University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

As the New Year festivities fade, each January reminds us of the passage of time. There is a tendency to look back with regret at roads not taken, and perhaps even despair at what the future holds.

Yet this time of year can also encourage more positive reflection. It was probably in early January of 44 BCE that Marcus Tullius Cicero, the Roman politician, orator, and philosopher, sat down to write On Old Age.

At 62, Cicero had endured personal and political losses. The year before, his daughter Tullia had died from complications from childbirth (the baby likely dying soon after), and Cicero had divorced his second wife, Publilia.

The Roman Republic was likewise in a dire state, in Cicero’s opinion, since Julius Caesar had recently been (or was about to be) named dictator for life.

Even amid this turmoil, and in the face of his own mortality, Cicero took pains to defend the experience of old age from its critics and to point out its many positive aspects.

He did so by adopting the persona of Cato the Elder, one of the most prominent statesmen of the third and second centuries, who lived from 234-149 BCE until his death at the age of 85.

While it was common in Greece and Rome for philosophical treatises to be written in the voice of a historical figure, Cicero makes clear in this book that the opinions of this character “Cato” represent his own views on old age.

The virtues of old age

Cicero addresses four criticisms of old age. The first two are that it forbids active pursuits and weakens the body. His forthright response is as applicable today as 2000 years ago:

It is not by muscle, speed, or physical dexterity that great things are achieved, but by reflection, force of character, and judgement; in these qualities old age is usually not only not poorer, but is even richer.

Cicero points out that the Roman senate derives its name from the fact that it was originally an assembly of old men, or senes in the original Latin. Older people have the wisdom, judgement, and experience necessary for good government.

Even the accusation that the memory dims with old age can be challenged, he suggests. Mental faculties only decline if they are unused; occupations such as language learning can help the mind stay sharp. (Cato talks about studying Greek in his twilight years).

As for strength, Cicero says that there are different kinds of vigour needed. An old man has already served his country in war, so that type of strength is no longer required (and in any case, a weak body can often be blamed on a dissolute youth!). But an old man’s voice can still resonate powerfully and make its point eloquently.

Landcare over lust

The third criticism of old age is that it lacks sensual pleasures. Lust, Cicero says, is the worst vice of youth and we should rejoice in its passing.

For carnal pleasure hinders deliberation, is at war with reason, blindfolds the eyes of the mind, so to speak, and has no fellowship with virtue.

The same goes for other types of indulgence, such as eating and drinking:

Old age lacks the heavy banquet, the loaded table, and the oft-filled cup; therefore it also lacks drunkenness, indigestion, and loss of sleep.

One can derive enjoyment from many activities in old age, such as studying science or the law, writing poetry, and similar pursuits that stimulate the mind. Cicero has the character of Cato discuss his own personal source of delight: tending to the land.

The real Cato did indeed write a work, On Agriculture, which was essentially a guide to estate management for the wealthy. The cultivation of vines is a particular joy, writes Cicero:

But, that you may know what affords the recreation and delight of my old age, I will say that vine-culture gives me a joy of which I cannot get too much. […] Are not the results obtained from mallet-shoots, sprouts, cuttings, divisions, and layers enough to afford wonder and delight to any man?

The final charge levelled against old age is that it means one is near to death. This can be easily dismissed, according to Cicero, because death can happen at any age.

Nay, even youth, much more than old age, is subject to the accident of death; the young fall sick more easily, their sufferings are more intense, and they are cured with greater difficulty. Therefore few arrive at old age, and, but for this, life would be lived in better and wiser fashion. For it is in old men that reason and good judgement are found, and had it not been for old men no state would have existed at all.

Life is transitory. We should make the best use of the time we have to live honourably, take delight in our good fortune, and face the inevitable with steadfastness. We can take comfort in the fact that our achievements will be remembered after we perish.

Lessons for today?

Throughout the treatise, Cicero successfully advocates for the dignity and value of growing old. He masterfully defends old age against many of the stereotypical charges still levelled against the elderly in the modern world.

But, the critics say, old men are morose, troubled, fretful, and hard to please; and, if we inquire, we shall find that some of them are misers, too. However, these are faults of character, not of age.

And yet we must remember that Cicero and his proxy character Cato were both extremely wealthy, aristocratic politicians who constituted a privileged minority in the Roman Republic. This criticism is addressed early on in the work:

For amid utter penury, old age cannot be a light thing, not even to a wise man; nor to a fool, even amid utmost wealth, can it be otherwise than burdensome.

This justification allows Cicero to develop his argument about the importance of virtue and good character extending well into old age. It reflects the fact that his intended audience was other wealthy men like him (the dedicatee of his book, his friend Titus Pomponius Atticus, was a fabulously rich businessman in his sixties).

Throughout the work, all the examples provided for the reader to emulate are great men from Greece, Rome, and neighbouring regions, such as the philosophers Plato and Pythagoras and the generals Scipio Africanus and Fabius Maximus, who fought against Hannibal in the Second Punic War.

This is a far cry from the world of the labourer or farmer working to feed his family. As classicist Tim Parkin has shown, there was no state support system for the elderly in ancient Rome and all assistance had to come from one’s relatives.

Silent on women and slaves

There is no discussion in On Old Age of the experience of women of any social status. We hear nothing about how the perils of childbearing cut many women down in their prime nor the situation of elderly widows, who were committed to looking after their children and grandchildren.

Though women were often traded and bartered as wives, Roman society still idolised the univira – literally the “one-man woman” – who never remarried after their husband’s death.

Nor is any mention made of the enslaved population who supported the leisurely retirement which Cicero so idolised or did all the hard labour on the estates owned by Cato. In his work On Agriculture, the real Cato wrote that “the old slave, the sick slave, and whatever else is superfluous” should be sold off, lest they compromise the workings of the estate.

Some enslaved people were able to buy their freedom, like Gaius Iulius Mygdonius, whose epitaph recorded that he was a Parthian, captured and enslaved by Romans in his youth. “From my boyhood onwards, I sought to reach old age”, he wrote on his tombstone, a poignant reminder of the adversity which he faced as human chattel.

Cicero’s work offers us salutary reminders about the joys of old age, but we should never forget that he represents the voice of privilege. For most Romans, men and women, free and enslaved, it was a daily struggle just to survive.

Caillan Davenport, Professor of Classics and Head of the Centre for Classical Studies, Australian National University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

According to Britannica, “art” can be described as something “consciously created through an expression of skill or imagination” – whereas Wikipedia defines it more narrowly as a human activity. But are humans the only species that makes art?

If we take art to be something that is beautiful and consciously created – and animals consciously create things that look like art – shouldn’t we accept these productions as art, too? As Edgar Degas put it, “art is not what you see, but what you make others see”. Indeed, we see beautiful creations all across the animal kingdom.

Some of these works, such as the bowerbird’s nest, are defined in the eyes of their animal beholders. Others have a largely functional purpose, such as mating or feeding, yet manifest in patterns and/or colours that make them beautiful to behold.

On that note, here are some of our favourite animal “artworks”.

Molluscs

Walking on the beach, you can’t help but notice the beautiful patterns on seashells scattered across the sand.

Molluscs such as sea and land snails have delicate bodies, so they need protection. They create their shells by layering a calcium carbonate secretion that hardens once it leaves their bodies.

On these spiral shells, you will find all manner of stripes, swirls and oblique lines that resemble geometric abstraction in art.

Pufferfish

In 1995, some divers off the coast of Japan noticed intricate and beautiful circular patterns etched into the sea floor. These “underwater crop circles” remained a mystery for more than a decade. In 2011, it was finally discovered a pufferfish – in this case the white-spotted pufferfish (Torquigener albomaculosus) – was responsible.

Male pufferfish spend several days creating these circles by repeatedly swimming in and out while digging into the sand with their fins. The circles themselves have two uses. They help attract a mate – wherein the males that make the most beautiful circles are more likely to have success – while the centre of the circle functions as a nest for eggs.

Some of these circles have even been found off the coast of Western Australia.

Bowerbirds

Bowerbirds are found across Australia and Papua New Guinea. While it’s unclear what their nests looked like before the plastic era, today they are often dominated by blue plastic.

The male birds scavenge and steal all things blue to take back to their nest, where the objects are scattered around two walls of carefully formed sticks bending towards each other.

Beauty is definitely in the eyes of the beholder, as researchers have found these nest decorations are linked to mating success for male bowerbirds.

Other bird nests

Apart from the bowerbird’s uniquely bedazzled nests, a range of other bird species make nests that are as beautiful as they are functional.

Hummingbirds, for instance, will often make nests with contrasting green and white moss and lichen, thought to be added for camouflage.

Meanwhile, male weaver birds build intricately woven nests to attract potential mates. These are made using twigs or plant material (whichever is readily available) and can contain more than 1,000 strands of grass.

Whales

A humpback whale can eat up to one tonne of fish in a day. This includes shoaling fish such as herring and mackerel. Humans catch large amounts of these fish using nets. But how do whales catch them?

The answer is something called bubble-net feeding. This cooperative activity requires two or more whales which dive deep below schools of fish and blow bubbles through their blowholes to stun and trap the fish closer to the surface. As one whale blows the bubbles, the other/s follow the fish to the surface in spiral patterns to keep them trapped.

The patterns made in this process are stunning. One photo of bubble-net feeding by humpback whales (Megaptera novaeangliae) even won the 2024 Australian Geographic Nature Photographer of the Year competition.

Sticklebacks

Great art is sometimes made with innovative materials.

The three-spined stickleback (Gasterosteus aculeatus) is a small fresh-water fish that develops a bright red throat during breeding season. But that’s not enough to attract a mate, so it also creates an underwater nest made from weeds held together by spiggin, a secretion that comes from the kidneys.

The stickleback’s spiggin is highly adhesive and sticks the weeds together, even in water. As many teenage boys know, you can’t leave the house without hair gel.

But the displays don’t stop there. Once the nest is ready, the male will try and lure females to it through a rather erratic courtship dance.

Beavers

While many artists make sculpture from natural materials such as stones or wood, beavers are arguably the experts at this.

Beavers make dams using trees they fell using their large front teeth, as well as other branches, mud and stone. These dams change the flow of streams, converting them into slow-moving lakes that provide the beavers protection from land-based predators.

Beyond helping themselves, the new lakes also create an ecosystem for lots of other animals, and can even help reduce flooding in human habitats.

Whether you agree animals make “art” or not, you can’t deny they make plenty of beautiful and functional works.

Susan Hazel, Associate Professor, School of Animal and Veterinary Science, University of Adelaide and Jono Tuke, Senior Lecturer, School of Mathematical Sciences, University of Adelaide

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Michael Leunig – who died in the early hours of Thursday December 19, surrounded by “his children, loved ones, and sunflowers” – was the closest thing Australian cartooning had to a prophet. By turns over his long career, he was a poet, a prophet and a provocateur.

The challenge comes in attempting to understand Leunig’s significance: for Australian cartooning; for readers of The Age and other papers past; and for the nation’s idea of itself.

On this day, do you remember the gently philosophical Leunig, or the savagely satirical one? Do you remember a cartoon that you thought absolutely nailed the problems of the world, or one you thought was terribly wrong-headed?

Leunig’s greatness lay in how intensely he made his audiences think and feel.

There is no one straightforward story to tell here. With six decades of cartooning at least weekly in newspapers and 25 book-length collections of his work, how could there be?

The light and the dark

One thread is an abiding fondness for the whimsical Leunig. Mr Curly and Vasco Pyjama live on in the imaginations of so many readers.

Particularly in the 1980s and 90s, Leunig’s work seemed to hold up a moral and ethical mirror up to Australian society – sometimes gently, but not without controversy, such as his 1995 “Thoughts of a baby lying in a childcare centre”.

Another thread is the dark satirist.

In the 1960s and 70s, he broke onto the scene as a wild man in Oz and the Nation Review who deplored Vietnam and only escaped the draft owing to deafness in one ear.

Then he apparently mellowed to become the guru of the Age, still with a capacity to launch the occasional satirical thunderbolt. Decidedly countercultural, together with Patrick Cook and Peter Nicholson, Leunig brought what historian Tony Moore has called “existential and non-materialist themes to the Australian black-and-white tradition”.

By 1999, he was declared a “national living treasure” by the National Trust, and was being lauded by universities for his unique contributions to the national culture.

But to tell the story of Leunig’s significance from the mid 90s on is to go beyond the dreamer and the duck. In later decades you could see a clear distinction between some cartoons that continued to console in a bewildering world, and others that sparked controversy.

Politics and controversy

Leunig saw 9/11 and the ensuing “War on Terror” as the great turning point in his career. He fearlessly returned to the themes of the Vietnam years, only to receive caution, rebuke and rejection from editors and readers.

He stopped drawing Mr Curly and Vasco Pyjama. The world was no longer safe for the likes of them.

Then there was a cartoon refused by the Age in 2002, deemed by editor Michael Gawenda to be inappropriate: in the first frame, a Jew is confronted by the gates of the death camp: “Work Brings Freedom [Arbeit Macht Frei]”; in the second frame an Israeli viewing a similar slogan “War Brings Peace”.

Rejected, it was never meant to see the light of day, but ABC’s Media Watch and Crikey outed it because of the constraint its spiking represented to fair media comment on the Middle East.

That the cartoon was later entered, without Leunig’s knowledge, in the infamous Iranian “Holocaust Cartoon” competition of 2006, has only added to its infamy and presaged the internet’s era of the uncontrollable circulation of images.

A decade later, from 2012, he reworked Martin Niemöller’s poetic statement of guilt over the Holocaust. The result was outrage, but also acute division within the Australian Jewish community.

Dvir Abramovich (chairperson of the Anti-Defamation Commission) made a distinction between something challenging, and something racist, believing it was the latter.

Harold Zwier (of the Australian Jewish Democratic Society) welcomed the chance for his community to think critically about Israel’s policies in Gaza and the West Bank.

From 2019 – a mother, distracted, looking at her phone rather than her baby. Cries of “misogyny”, including from Leunig’s very talented cartoonist sister, Mary.

Then from 2021 – a COVID-19 vaccination needle atop an armoured tank, rolling towards a helpless citizen.

Leunig’s enforced retirement (it is still debated whether he walked or was pushed) was long and drawn-out. He filed his last cartoon for the Age this August. By then, he had alienated more than a few of his colleagues in the press and the cartooning profession.

Support of the downtrodden

Do we speak ill of the dead? We hope not. Instead, we hope we are paying respect to a great and often angry artist who wanted always to challenge the consumer society with its dark cultural and geopolitical secrets.

Leunig’s response was a single line of argument: he was “Just a cartoonist with a moral duty to speak”.

You don’t have to agree with every provocation, but his purpose is always to take up the cause of the weak, and deploy all the weaponry at his disposal to support the downtrodden in their fight.

“The role of the cartoonist is not to be balanced”, said Leunig, but rather to “give balance”.

For Leunig, the weak were the Palestinian civilians, the babies of the post-iPhone generation, and those forced to be vaccinated by a powerful state; just as they were the Vietnamese civilians, the children forced to serve their rulers through state-sanctioned violence, the citizens whose democracy was undercut by stooges of the establishment.

That deserves to be his legacy, regardless of whether you agree or not about his stance.

The coming year will give a great many people pause to reflect on the life and work of Leunig. Indeed, he has provided us with a monthly schedule for doing just that: Leunig may be gone, but 2025 is already provided for, via his last calendar.

Richard Scully, Professor in Modern History, University of New England; Robert Phiddian, Professor of English, Flinders University, and Stephanie Brookes, Senior Lecturer, School of Media, Film and Journalism, Monash University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

*When we think of Gabrielle Chanel, her iconic fashion empire comes to mind. Yet, few associate her with the groundbreaking role of a self-made woman – a trailblazer who defied societal norms to build a global empire. Though her name is synonymous with luxury and innovation, her entrepreneurial spirit remains undervalued, particularly in her native France. *

Creating an entrepreneurial empire from scratch remains a rare feat for women, even today. Chanel is one of the few exceptions. While her brand enjoys global recognition, her pioneering business acumen is often overlooked. In a country such as France, where stories of entrepreneurship rarely enter mainstream discourse, her achievements have not been celebrated in the same way they might have been if she were American. Yet, even in the U.S., where the “self-made man” myth thrives, the concept of a “self-made woman” remains underdeveloped.

Entrepreneurship research often highlights that building a sustainable business requires capital, which tends to favour those with pre-existing wealth or social connections – privileges disproportionately held by men. Academic studies, such as those by Le Loarne-Lemaire (2014), demonstrate how educational access and networks, often inherited, play a critical role. Entrepreneurs are frequently the children of other entrepreneurs, perpetuating cycles of privilege.

The self-made woman archetype

In this context, Gabrielle Chanel stands out as an anomaly. The American myth of the self-made man, as described by researcher James Catano, portrays an industrious, typically white male immigrant who rises from obscurity to create an economic empire. This archetype has roots in 19th-century America, with figures such as Andrew Carnegie embodying the ideal.

Chanel’s story flips this gendered narrative on its head. Starting from humble beginnings, she turned her life into a carefully crafted legend. Orphaned and raised in a convent, she took those early struggles and spun them into a mix of fact and fiction that defined her image. She controlled every detail – even designing her own gravestone.

A path forged through independence

Unlike heirs who build on family wealth, Chanel started with nothing. Lacking formal training in couture, she relied on creativity and her vision of women. Her first shop was funded with the help of a lover, but she repaid him. Even her partnership with the Wertheimer brothers, who helped scale Chanel No. 5, was carefully negotiated to retain control over her brand.

Chanel’s wartime actions, including collaborations with the Nazi regime, remain a contentious part of her legacy. Yet, it’s worth noting that she was not alone among French business leaders in making morally questionable choices during World War II. The scrutiny she faces today often exceeds that directed at her contemporaries.

Gabrielle Chanel stands out as a true self-made woman – arguably one of the first in capitalist history. Her rival, Elsa Schiaparelli, can’t make the same claim. Schiaparelli was born into privilege, with significant social and economic capital, and married a count before launching her business. Even in the United States, where entrepreneurship flourished, contemporaries such as Helena Rubinstein don’t fully fit the self-made mould – Rubinstein built her empire with the help of her husband.

The closest contender to Chanel’s title might be Elizabeth Arden. A nurse from rural Canada, Arden moved to New York to carve out her fortune. She opened her first beauty shop with her own savings and expanded it into a global brand and franchise. While loans helped fuel her growth – likely facilitated by her marriage to a banker – her husband’s attempts to impose his friends and ideas on the business underscored their dynamic. Coco Chanel, ever fiercely independent, would never have tolerated such interference.

The big names

If Chanel represents the myth of the self-made woman, why isn’t she celebrated that way? Would her achievements have been more widely recognised if she had built her empire in the United States? The answer is far from clear.

Before exploring the American angle, let’s take a closer look at the French context. Despite globalisation of culture and economies, certain myths don’t cross borders easily. In France, there’s a noticeable disinterest in the stories of entrepreneurs. How many people can name the founders of Carrefour or Seb? L’Oréal’s founder is somewhat known, but mostly due to the scandals of his descendants. Family business sagas, such as those of the Mulliez clan, garner more attention. Yet, the glorification of entrepreneurs – especially those who start with nothing – is largely absent. Even initiatives such as French Tech Nation and efforts by BPI France haven’t sparked a cultural shift.

For women entrepreneurs, there have been attempts to create female “role models,” but the focus is often on contemporary figures. Instead of drawing on the successes of the past, the spotlight is placed on profiles still in development. While this approach boosts visibility for current entrepreneurs, does it inspire the next generation? Research suggests it might not.

Chanel, despite being the subject of countless biographies in France, is rarely held up as an example in entrepreneurship courses or programs aimed at fostering female leadership. In France, the myth of the female entrepreneur remains unfinished – and the idea of the self-made woman is even further behind.

The paradox of the self-made man

Would Chanel’s achievements have been more celebrated if she had operated in the United States? Perhaps not. The American myth of the “self-made man” struggles to adapt to gender and contemporary realities. As Catano notes, the archetype elevates individuals who challenge societal norms while paradoxically reinforcing a rigid, masculine ideal that excludes women.

In the 1950s, when Chanel’s empire was thriving, the prevailing image of women in America was the housewife – a stark contrast to Chanel’s commanding role as a businesswoman. Even during the “working girl” era of the 1970s and 1980s, Chanel’s success might have seemed too audacious. Her story challenges traditional gender roles in ways that remain uncomfortable even today.

A myth still to be written

Chanel might be the ultimate symbol of a “self-made woman,” but that narrative remains largely untold. In fact, the idea of the “self-made man” itself – the classic rags-to-riches archetype – feels increasingly out of step with the times.

Today’s cultural spotlight favours contemporary role models over historical figures, as evidenced by Forbes’s power rankings. Modern entrepreneurial icons often come with pedigrees tied to elite institutions – Mark Zuckerberg from Harvard, Larry Page from Stanford. Even Elon Musk, who claims to have worked his way through college, benefited from a head start in social and financial capital. These realities undermine the self-made narrative, particularly in today’s tech-driven economy. The focus has shifted from celebrating humble beginnings to examining the broader impact of these empires.

Chanel, however, made a profound impact through her work. Her designs helped liberate women from the constraints of corsets, offering practical yet elegant alternatives that redefined fashion. But while her influence was revolutionary, social engagement wasn’t a hallmark of her career. Chanel made bold, sometimes ruthless decisions, such as shutting down her business and laying off her entire workforce during World War II. To be fair, few of her contemporaries demonstrated significant societal commitments either.

Gabrielle Chanel, an inspiration

“Different times, different values”? If the myth of the “self-made man” is losing relevance – challenged for its “self-made” ideal and its inherently masculine framing – Chanel’s story remains a lesson in resilience and innovation, one that deserves attention in both France and the United States.

Her life unfolded during the transformative 1920s, a period of newfound freedoms for women, later stifled by war and authoritarian regimes. Chanel navigated dominated business spheres with skill, never allowing herself to be dismissed or pigeonholed. Her career highlights the importance of partnerships and the reality that few entrepreneurs achieve greatness alone.

Chanel’s journey also offers a guide to securing funding and maintaining autonomy – skills critical to any aspiring entrepreneur. In many ways, she predated post-feminism by embodying its principles. She redefined entrepreneurship as a space where collaboration with men didn’t compromise her control or vision. Chanel’s legacy not only reshaped fashion but also challenged entrenched social hierarchies, proving that women could thrive and innovate in the entrepreneurial world.

Séverine Le Loarne-Lemaire, Professor, Head of the FERE Research Chair (Female Entrepreneurship for a Renewed Economy) Habilitée à diriger des recherches en sciences de gestion, Grenoble École de Management (GEM)

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

We first met Martyn in 2013 when he was 54 and working as a professor at a UK university. He cut a sharp figure in a black two-piece suit, a bright red shirt with cufflinks, a matching tie and a pocket square. We were meeting to talk about fashionable mature men’s clothing habits.

We spent nearly two hours looking at some of Martyn’s most treasured fashion possessions and chatting about his interest in clothing and style. It’s not very often in research that participants are so keen and engaged, and Martyn’s passion for stylish clothing really shone through. This interest started early during his school years, when he used to unpick the seams of his school uniform.

Martyn was one of five British men included in our research, all aged between 54 and 63 from the baby boomer generation (people born between 1946 and 1964). Our first study, conducted in 2013, consisted of interviews and inventories of their wardrobes.

One of the insights from this was that, through years of interest and engagement with fashion, these men had accumulated considerable knowledge and expertise in how to best dress their bodies – and amassed large archives of both functional and iconic items of clothing.

As a result, the way they bought and wore their clothes was rooted in practical need and emotional connection, rather than unthinking accumulation or impulsive purchasing. This is something other people, including younger generations, could be inspired by.

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Now, almost a decade later, we’ve caught up with three of our interviewees again, conducting analyses and interpretations of their wardrobes as well as a series of interviews. While their clothing styles, and even some of the items, were pretty much the same as in 2013, the way they consume and engage with fashion has shifted.

These men now shop less, prioritising quality over quantity. Although their often flamboyant appearance might suggest otherwise, this rationalised approach to purchasing is in step with fashion minimalism – the trend for slower and more considered clothing consumption, while rejecting the idea of clothes shopping as a leisure activity. As Ian, a retired 70-year-old businessman, reflected:

I think I probably have built up such a wardrobe of classic pieces that I really only need to buy some small additions now. Nothing major. If I do see some classic pieces that I love, I will still buy them even now. But I have certainly slowed down with buying, and looking at the [men’s fashion] magazines.

It’s important to note we were talking to the men again at a time of major changes in their lives. Retirement had brought shifts in their lifestyle, such as more leisure time and new hobbies. This meant they were dressing for different contexts – no longer the office, but for a day at home or evening down the pub.

For these three men, aged 65 to 74, their changing bodies are also important to how they now experience clothes – from minor aches and pains to health issues that affect their mobility. As a result, their clothes are required to fulfil different types of need – balancing comfort with style, avoiding items that could restrict movement or impede confidence.

However, their commitment to expressing their identities through stylish clothing remains strong, flying in the face of commonly held assumptions that men stop caring about their appearance at a certain time in life.

Both our studies suggest the opposite. Indeed, when we spoke to Martyn again in 2024, his fashion sensibilities had only sharpened. He was the image of sartorial elegance, arriving for his interview in a checked suit accessorised with a trilby, tie pin and lapel clip, sleeve garters, a carved walking stick and handmade leather brogues. Martyn described his fashion choices as follows:

I’ve always got a smart shirt, reasonably smart trousers, proper shoes and, if it’s to be cold, a waistcoat with a pocket watch. And that’s me, sitting on my own, typing or just playing with the cat.

Or take Kevin, a 74-year-old retired lecturer devoted to the mod subculture’s clothing aesthetics, including sporting suits and tailored coats. His fashion archives consist of some incredible pieces that have been in his wardrobe for more than 20 years:

I used to wear [suits] all the time, irrespective of whether it was a formal occasion or work. That was my style for years and years – but less so now. My main social life revolves around my local pub, which is not a place really to get dressed up to go to – although I do, sometimes. I am fed up of wearing the same clothes.

Then he added, with a grin: “Once a mod, always a mod!”

Despite some major changes to their lifestyles, the three men have maintained their interest in clothing and its importance in expressing their unique identities – offering an interesting angle to the growing academic interest in menswear and men’s fashion. Their slower and more considered consumption of fashion presents food for thought in relation to the role and value of clothes in all stages of life.

Ania Sadkowska, Lecturer in Fashion, Coventry University and Katherine Townsend, Reader in Fashion and Textile Crafts, Nottingham Trent University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

You’re standing at the centre of an expansive art gallery, overwhelmed by what’s in front of you: panel after panel of stupendous works – densely-written labels affixed next to each piece. These labels may offer a window into the artist’s intention, or the social and historical context of the work.

Without any background information, how do you make the most of your visit? Do you turn to the curatorial wisdom in the accompanying text? Or can the art be experienced just as profoundly, if not more so, without any external guidance?

We asked five experts – and their answers suggest art may be witnessed in as many wide and varied ways as it is created.

Noor Gillani, Digital Culture Editor, The Conversation

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Startups have always been at the forefront of innovation. But factors such as artificial intelligence (AI), sustainability and decentralisation are set to reshape industries in 2025.

Businesses are defined as startups when they are in the initial stages of development. They are characterised by the potential for rapid growth and external funding. And they are also sensitive to economic shifts and investment uncertainty.

For Australia and New Zealand, startups play an important role in overcoming geographic and market constraints. They can also help address both countries’ persistent productivity challenges.

Industry body Startup Genome estimates Sydney’s startup ecosystem was worth US$72 billion in 2024 with more than 3,000 startups. New Zealand’s ecosystem is valued at $9 billion across 2,400 startups.

Both Australia and New Zealand have weathered global challenges such as recent slowdowns in investment activity when startups struggled to secure funding.

But venture investments in both countries recovered well in 2024 compared to elsewhere. And the outlook for 2025 is cautiously optimistic.

Global trends in 2025

As global trends reshape industries, local startups could take the lead. Here are eight key trends set to define their path in 2025.

Generative AI: driving creativity and efficiency

Generative AI – a type of artificial intelligence technology that can produce text, images and audio – helps firms to automate complex tasks, create personalised user experiences and lower costs.

The challenge will be to balance rapid innovation with ethical considerations around data privacy, bias and environmental impact.

Businesses that demonstrate transparency and accountability are more likely to stand out in an increasingly competitive field.

Sustainability: a competitive advantage

Sustainability has evolved from a compliance requirement to a strategic benefit.

Globally, carbon capture and green technology are attracting record investments. Sustainability drives some of the most innovative solutions in Australia and New Zealand, where climate resilience is a critical issue.

The rise of sustainable startups aligns with growing consumer expectations and government incentives.

Health tech: the personalisation revolution

Health tech is undergoing a profound shift, moving from reactive care to proactive, personalised solutions.

In 2025, personalisation will continue to influence healthcare. Startups using AI and data analytics to improve outcomes and accessibility are likely to see growth.

Remote work evolution

The shift to remote and hybrid work has reshaped business operations worldwide. This is particularly the case in the aftermath of the global pandemic.

Tools that enhance productivity and enable startups and big companies alike to build global teams will help businesses access talent across borders.

Decentralisation: blockchain beyond cryptocurrency

Blockchain technology is moving beyond its roots in cryptocurrency and is now integral to transparency, efficiency and data security.

Decentralised applications, which run on blockchain technology and rely on peer-to-peer networks, are changing how businesses do things in areas like finance, healthcare and entertainment.

Space tech: scaling the final frontier

Space technology is no longer the exclusive domain of government agencies. Startups such as New Zealand’s Rocket Lab are increasing access to space.

Australian company Fleet Space Technologies is deploying nanosatellites to improve connectivity in remote industries like mining and agriculture.

Diversity in funding and leadership

Globally, funding disparities remain a challenge for underrepresented groups in entrepreneurship, including women, Indigenous peoples and minority communities.

Startups led by these groups often receive a fraction of the funding allocated to their counterparts, limiting their ability to scale and compete.

Female-led startups, for example, attract less than 3% of venture capital. Indigenous and minority entrepreneurs frequently face unique barriers such as limited access to networks and culturally tailored support.

Programs designed to address these inequities can play an transformative role. These initiatives include those aimed at women founders, offering mentorship, funding and business development resources. Similar programs for cultural groups providing funding and culturally aligned advisory services are also important.

In 2025, systemic barriers will continue to attract attention, with increasing demands for startups to be more diverse and inclusive.

Alternative financing models

In the face of a continuing economic downturn, startups will likely continue to explore alternative financing models to fund growth without sacrificing significant equity.

Traditional venture capital often leaves gaps, especially for early-stage ventures or those in underserved sectors.

Bootstrapping, where founders self-fund and grow sustainably, continues to be a cornerstone for many entrepreneurs. However, crowdfunding platforms are evolving rapidly. Other options allow startups to engage directly with their communities and raise significant capital while building customer loyalty.

In 2025, new fintech developments and AI-driven platforms could streamline access to grants, loans and investment opportunities, making funding faster and more accessible.

These changes are set to expand the range of options for founders, reducing reliance on traditional venture capital and creating a more inclusive and dynamic funding ecosystem.

Startups as catalysts for change

Startups will continue to experience greater than usual uncertainty and must navigate the complexities of 2025, tackling global challenges with local ingenuity.

They will continue to reshape industries and address critical economic and environmental issues, harnessing generative AI, advancing green technologies and innovating financing models.

However, to succeed, startups must prioritise inclusivity and support innovative funding approaches to ensure broad-based participation in technology-driven growth.

Rod McNaughton, Professor of Entrepreneurship, University of Auckland, Waipapa Taumata Rau

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Ichthyosaurs were reptiles that swam in the seas during the time of the dinosaurs. They evolved separately around 250 million years ago, possibly from a crocodile-like ancestor, to resemble fish and modern dolphins.

Then, they went extinct around 94 million years ago.

In 2010, palaeontologist James Crampton discovered a partial ichthyosaur skeleton while working on Coverham Station in the Clarence Valley, inland North Canterbury. This specimen dates back to the Cenomanian stage during the Late Cretaceous epoch just under 100 million years ago.

The skeleton was encased within a hard concretion and was taken from Coverham to be stored and catalogued at GNS Science until 2021. It was identified as an ichthyosaur because of the characteristic hourglass shaped vertebrae.

Our detailed study now sheds further light on this specimen, which is more complete than any other known ichthyosaur skeleton from New Zealand.

Before this discovery, the only Cretaceous ichthyosaur material found in New Zealand was a small fragment of a jaw and a few vertebrae, all from different individuals, and all from the North Island. This find significantly advanced our understanding of these dolphin-like reptiles in Aotearoa New Zealand.

Medical scanner reveals bones within rocks

The ichthyosaurs of New Zealand have remained poorly understood due to the lack of well-preserved specimens. This fossil promises to change the narrative.

Expert fossil expert Al Mannering meticulously prepared the find so it could be scanned using a medical CT scanner to image the bones that were too difficult to prepare.

Each bone was then rendered in 3D to study its morphology using a technique known as virtual preparation. The fossils included a part of the base of the skull, parts of the shoulder and front flipper, as well as a complete left pelvis and most of a hind flipper. Many vertebrae and flipper bones were also present in the concretion.

This discovery is particularly exciting because the specimen is about 98 million years old. This is about four million years before the final extinction of ichthyosaurs, which makes it one of the youngest semi-complete ichthyosaur skeletons known.

The fossil is essential for understanding ichthyosaur diversity in New Zealand. These ancient reptiles have not been studied as comprehensively as in the northern hemisphere due to the fragmentary nature of most specimens.

The pelvis is also very rarely preserved in Cretaceous ichthyosaurs, especially this close to their final demise. This provides much needed additional data about what they looked like and how they differed from species around the world. We can see that it was different from the hip bones of other species.

Surprising evolutionary links

Although the specimen is too fragmentary to be formally named, it exhibits several distinctive features.

These include an extremely simplified base of the skull and a scapula (shoulder blade) with a prominently flared head and a strap-like shaft. There is also a distinct furrow on one of the pelvic bones, something not seen in any other species.

The well-preserved pelvis and hind fin of this specimen provide valuable information, contributing to our limited knowledge about Cretaceous ichthyosaurs.

Together, these characteristics indicate this specimen is part of the family Platypterygiidae and most closely related to the Australian species Platypterygius australis and various other European Cretaceous ichthyosaurs.

Interestingly, this specimen appears to be unrelated to the ichthyosaurs of Western Gondwana, in modern-day South America. This was unexpected, as 98 million years ago South America and New Zealand were certainly closer to each other than to Europe.

This suggests the species in New Zealand may have remained separate from those in South America, hinting at potential regionalism among the Gondwanan Cretaceous ichthyosaur populations.

This contradicts what is seen in the slightly younger fossils of other marine reptiles such as plesiosaurs and mosasaurs, which show evolutionary links between South America, Antarctica and New Zealand. It is possible these links began after ichthyosaurs became extinct.

This discovery enriches the known diversity of southern hemisphere and Australasian ichthyosaurs. It highlights the more regionalised distribution of these marine reptiles around the margins of Gondwana in the late Cretaceous.

Paul Scofield, Adjunct Professor in Palaeontology, University of Canterbury; George Young, PhD student in Palaeontology, James Cook University, and Vanesa De Pietri, Senior Research Fellow in Palaeontology, University of Canterbury

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In a world where information flows freely, it’s easy to forget that, for centuries, knowledge was much harder to come by. Imagine living in a time when the internet didn’t exist, books were scarce, libraries were few, and most people couldn’t even read.

This was the world of Isidore of Seville, a man dedicated to gathering and sharing knowledge to be passed down for generations.

Thanks to his work, he was named the patron saint of the internet in 1997 by Pope John Paul II, recognising his impact on knowledge and communication.

Importantly, understanding Isidore’s life and work also helps us navigate the murky online world of lies – and find information we can trust.

Isidore’s world and the ‘Dark Ages’

Isidore was a bishop and scholar who lived in Seville in what is now Spain during a time we often call the “Dark Ages”, roughly 500–1000 AD. After the fall of the Roman Empire, much of Europe was in chaos – as if the lights had been turned off.

Political instability, war and disease disrupted learning and culture. Many people were illiterate, and many classical works from ancient Greece and Rome risked being lost forever.

In this world of limited access to learning, Isidore stood out. He wanted to make knowledge more accessible, especially to Christians.

He saw preserving and sharing information as essential to keeping civilisation alive and thriving. To do this, he wrote his most famous work, Etymologiae, which became a go-to book for centuries.

What was Etymologiae?

Think of Etymologiae as one of the first encyclopedias. An encyclopedia is a book that collects information on many topics, often arranged alphabetically, making it easy to find answers.

Isidore’s work covered everything from language, science and geography to theology, the study of God. His goal was to make ancient knowledge easier to find and understand. He wanted to save the best ideas of the past and bring them into his present time.

In Etymologiae, he drew from well-known classical authors such as Aristotle, Cicero and Pliny, alongside Christian writers such as Augustine and Jerome. This book became essential for medieval students and scholars because it saved so much knowledge from being lost.

Later, Isidore’s work was widely used in schools across Europe and helped many people learn about topics they might otherwise never know about. It laid a foundation for preserving ancient ideas through the Middle Ages and beyond.

The power of language in Isidore’s work

For Isidore, words were powerful. He argued that understanding the origin, or etymology, of words gave people insight into the true meaning of things. This focus on language is why he called his book Etymologiae. He saw language as a bridge that connected people to knowledge.

But Isidore went beyond just defining words. He also explained concepts from nature, science and history, making sure people had a well-rounded understanding of the world.

In a time when superstitions and beliefs in supernatural forces often influenced people’s view of natural events, Isidore promoted a rational approach. He wanted people to know the facts about their world.

Isidore’s role in education and the church

Isidore wasn’t just a writer.

As a senior leader in the Christian Church, he played an important role in both religion and education. He set up “cathedral schools” for training future priests. These schools would later inspire the first European universities, where students could study a wide range of subjects.

For Isidore education was essential for everyone, not just the church’s leaders.

By promoting the seven “liberal arts” – subjects such as grammar, logic, rhetoric, geometry, arithmetic, astronomy and music – he helped create a model for what would eventually become medieval university education. His ideas about learning spread across Europe, inspiring others to value education as a path to both knowledge and faith.

The patron saint of the internet

So, how did Isidore, who lived 1,400 years ago, become the patron saint of the internet? His Etymologiae was, in many ways, the internet of his time – a collection of facts and explanations from various sources.

Just as the internet today connects us to all kinds of information, Isidore’s work aimed to make learning easier for people of his era.

In naming him the patron saint of the internet, the Catholic Church recognised Isidore’s efforts to collect, organise, and share knowledge. Like the internet, Etymologiae allowed ideas to flow across generations, even when people had limited access to books or formal education.

Isidore’s lasting legacy

Isidore’s influence didn’t end with his life. His ideas spread across Europe, especially during the Carolingian Renaissance of the eighth and ninth centuries – a time when scholars worked to revive learning and culture. Etymologiae became a popular text in monasteries and cathedral schools.

In later centuries, scholars relied on his work to understand classical literature, science and theology.

Today, Isidore’s dedication to knowledge serves as a reminder of the importance of preserving and sharing reliable information.

Just as Isidore saw his work as a way to preserve knowledge, we now live in an age of easy access to information. But not all of it is true.

He believed learning should guide us toward wise choices and serve a greater good.

Darius von Guttner Sporzynski, Researcher, Historian, Australian Catholic University

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