From his earliest filmic experiments in the 1990s to international blockbusters, Wes Anderson has carved an instantly recognizable, unique, and much-memed cinematic niche. Muted hues, quirky characters, and a throwback sensibility bring off-the-wall, ensemble narratives to life.

London’s Design Museum, in collaboration with la Cinémathèque française, presents the first retrospective of the film director’s creative output, from early releases like Bottle Rocket (1996) to more mainstream hits like The Darjeeling Limited (2007) and The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014).

Including more than 600 objects, most of which will go on display in Britain for the first time, the exhibition will showcase iconic set pieces, preparatory notes, puppets, and models from numerous films. Just a few highlights include a miniature motorcycle that belonged to Mr. Fox in the titular The Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009), Sam Shakuski’s Scout kit from Moonrise Kingdom (2012), and Anderson’s personal notebooks from The Royal Tenenbaums (2001).

Wes Anderson: The Archives opens on November 21 and continues through July 26, 2026. Tickets are available now, and you can plan your visit on the Design Museum’s website.

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A quote widely attributed to Tom Robbins says, “At the typewriter you find out who you are.” Or in the case of one unique machine that’s been missing for decades, the same could be said for finding one, too.

In January, Jennifer Felix and her husband Nelson were sorting through items in Jennifer’s grandfather’s basement in New York. They stumbled upon a typewriter like they’d never seen, with Chinese keys. Nelson posted a few photos in a Facebook group called What’s My Typewriter Worth? “From my internet search it looks to be a Chinese-made MingKwai,” he wrote. “I just can’t find any ever sold here in the States. Is it even worth anything? It weighs a ton!”

Resounding enthusiasm rippled through the comments, as it turned out the machine was indeed a MingKwai — named for being “clear and fast” — the only one of its kind in the world.

Missing for more than half a century, the discovery prompted a multitude of messages from people around the world wanting to purchase the machine or place it into museums. It is now in the collection of Stanford Libraries.

Invented in 1947 by writer, translator, and linguist Lin Yutang, the typewriter was the first compact concept to feature a keyboard that could produce the Chinese language’s 80,000-plus characters. He accomplished this by creating a kind of sort-and-search method.

“Lin broke down Chinese ideographs into more fundamental components of strokes and shapes and arranged the characters in a linear order, like an English dictionary does with alphabetic words,” researcher Yangyang Chen describes in Made in China Journal.

The keyboard consists of 72 options, which can be combined to create one’s desired characters. Chen continues:

By pressing one of the 36 top character component keys and one of the 28 bottom component keys simultaneously, the machine would find up to eight corresponding characters. The user could see the candidates through a special viewing window on the device, which Lin called his “magic eye,” and select the correct one by pushing the respective numerical key.

The Carl E. Krum Company built the only known prototype of the MingKwai, says Stanford Report. Lin was unable to drum up enough commercial interest to produce the expensive machine, so he sold the prototype and rights to Mergenthaler Linotype Company, where Jennifer Felix’s grandfather was employed as a machinist. The typewriter never entered production, and it eventually disappeared—until now.

Stanford plans to use the unique machine for research, exhibits, and academic programs. Regan Murphy-Kao, director of the East Asia Library, says, “I couldn’t be happier to have the opportunity to steward, preserve, and make this extraordinary prototype accessible for scholarship.”

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Utagawa Hiroshige (1797–1858) was born in Japan on the brink of a national transformation. The Edo Period, characterized by the military rule of the Tokugawa Shogunate, had seen economic growth and sustained peace since its establishment in 1603. But 200 years on, the government’s staunch policies, hierarchical structure, and isolation from the outside world was beginning to erode. In 1867, just nine years after Hiroshige’s death, a new emperor restored imperial rule.

Hiroshige: artist of the open road, which just opened at The British Museum, traces the remarkable variety of locations the artist portrayed, from cherry trees and gardens to pleasure boats in the Ryōgoku district of Edo (modern-day Tokyo) to sweeping views of iconic Mt. Fuji. His woodcuts capture everyday life, landscapes, and culture in 19th-century Japan in vibrant color.

Along with his contemporary peers like Hokusai, the artist witnessed immense change throughout his lifetime, which he chronicled in thousands of woodblock prints. “As Japan confronted the encroaching outside world, Hiroshige’s calm artistic vision connected with—and reassured —people at every level of society,” the museum says.

Hiroshige often assembled his prints into collections or folios, and artist of the open road includes examples from 100 Famous Views of Edo (1857), The 69 Stations of the Kiso Highway (late 1830s), and more. The exhibition also marks the artist’s first solo show presented by The British Museum and the first in London in more than a quarter-century.

Hiroshige: artist of the open road continues through September 7 in London. You might also enjoy perusing this fantastic ukiyo-e print archive.

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During a trip to Lagos in 2015, Karl Ohiri noticed something alarming. The British-Nigerian artist observed how long-running photography studios in the city were destroying their archives—sometimes incidentally, sometimes purposely—as they shuttered or moved out of the city into quieter village settings. And as a generation of photographers shifted to digital methods, film began to literally disappear.

Ohiri was moved to remedy this phenomenon, so he struck up relationships with local photographers and began acquiring endangered negatives “in an attempt to ensure that this precious cultural heritage was not lost over time,” he says in a statement. The Lagos Studio Archives project was born.

“The initiative’s main aims are to collect, preserve, and present the imagery of a generation of photographers that captured the style, humour, and aspirations of everyday Lagosians,” a statement says. Its mission revolves around spotlighting otherwise hidden narratives in one of Africa’s biggest hubs, “whilst further expanding dialogues around West African photography, culture, and the legacies of the diaspora.”

Ohiri, along with his partner, Finnish-British artist Riikka Kassinen, conceive of Lagos Studio Archives as a means of preserving and showcasing the wealth of history, culture, style, and daily life in Nigeria’s former capital. Formally organized in 2016, the archive has developed and exhibited images internationally at venues like the Museum of Modern Art in New York and South London Gallery

“The project was initiated out of a growing concern that on a long enough timeline, a void would be created where large sections of Lagosian history would be lost and unable to be retrieved,” Ohiri and Kassinen say. “This vacuum could lead to gaps in representation within mainstream Nigerian culture that could have serious repercussions for present and future generations of Nigerians trying to gain a deeper understanding of their heritage and culture.”

To date, the archive houses negatives saved from more than twenty studios, consisting of thousands of images. “Through conversations with
photographers from the analogue era, the project has engaged in dialogues that explore the importance of preserving photographic archives as an integral part of shaping collective identity,” the artists say.

Currently based in Helsinki, Ohiri and Kassinen’s individual practices explore relationships between lived experiences within contemporary society and socially engaged dialogues around heritage and culture. As the pair develop images in the collection, distinct series and themes organically emerge.

The color images shown here are part of an initiative titled Archive of Becoming, which focuses on deteriorated negatives, primarily of studio portraits. As a result of humidity, mold, heat, and other elements, the photos develop with psychedelic colors, dissolved emulsion, and blank areas.

“By resurrecting these images from negatives and displaying them in their new context, the works speak of the sad state of some of the negatives,” the duo says. “However, it also talks about a certain beauty that can be found in decay that expresses the passing of time and the unpredictable life of images.”

Another body of work focuses on a husband-and-wife team who ran Abi Morocco Photos, which operated between the 1970s and 2006. The studio captured a wide array of fashionable portraits in black-and-white that celebrate myriad nearly-lost visual narratives of Lagos around the turn of the 21st century.

Ohiri and Kassinen describe the archive as an intersection between an artist-run project and a social entity, centered around the “idea of collective responsibility in preserving heritage and culture as a form of activism that starts with the individual.” Explore much more on Instagram, where you can follow updates about exhibitions, newly developed photos, and a forthcoming book focused on the work of Abi Morocco Photos. (via WePresent)

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“My favorite thing about kapa is that it is simultaneously ancestral, ancient, and contemporary,” says Lehuauakea (Kanaka Maoli), who recently received the Walker Youngbird Foundation grant for emerging Native American artists. Kapa, the Indigenous Hawaiian practice of clothmaking, uses the inner bark of the wauke, or paper mulberry tree, to create garments and textiles. For Lehuauakea, the technique forms the foundation of a practice rooted in the artist’s Hawaiian lineage and material traditions.

Softening the fibers enough to create cloth requires a labor-intensive method of soaking pieces of bark. Through an arduous process of beating and stretching with tools like the iʻe kuku, a thin, pliable fabric emerges. “It is a very malleable material that reflects the current state of the natural environment, and the surrounding community and personal hand of the maker,” Lehuauakea tells Colossal. “It requires a level of patience and perseverance while also paying close attention to the nature of the bark and pigments you are working with.”

Kapa is derived from ancient Polynesian practices—it’s called tapa in other parts of the Pacific—and Hawaiians elaborated on the custom by incorporating watermarks, natural pigments, and fermentation.

Traditionally, kapa possessed both practical and spiritual qualities, as it was used for everyday apparel and bedding but also served as a carrier of mana, or healing life force. When the U.S. controversially annexed the territory and the import of cotton amped up in the late 19th century, the practice all but died out.

Lehuauakea’s interest in kapa emerged when their family relocated to Oregon when they were young. Over time, the artist felt increasingly disconnected from their home and sought a way to conjure a link to their Hawaiian ancestry.

“I remembered learning about kapa as a child and how we’d use patterns to tell stories, so in my junior year of college I taught myself how to carve ʻohe kāpala, or traditional carved bamboo printing tools used for decorating finished kapa,” the artist says. Then it was onto learning how to make the barkcloth itself, with the help of artisan and mentor Wesley Sen, spurring Lehuauakea’s passion for the medium.

Fascinated by the potential to not only continue a time-honored Kanaka Maoli art form but also to experiment and push the boundaries of the material, Lehuauakea makes large-scale installations, hand-stitched garments, mixed-media suspended works, and hand-painted two-dimensional compositions— “in other words, forms that you wouldn’t see in ancestral samples of pre-contact Hawaiian kapa,” they say. The artist continues:

As an Indigenous cultural practitioner and artist, I believe it is important to have a solid foundation in the traditional knowledge of the practice before attempting to expand on it or experiment with more contemporary expressions of the medium because I am not singular in this work; I am simply building on a tradition that was passed down through many generations before me, and I can only hope that I am able to inspire future generations to continue it.

Lehuauakea is currently working toward solo exhibitions at the Center for Contemporary Art Santa Fe and Nunu Fine Art in New York City, exploring ideas around Native Hawaiian cosmology, celestial cycles, and the relationship between Native Hawaiian language and pattern. Find more on the artist’s website.

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“We’re going to make stuff out of beads that is going to take people’s breath away,” says Ralph Ziman in the trailer for “The MiG-21 Project,” a military jet that he and a transcontinental team coated nose to tail in millions upon millions of glass beads.

For the past 12 years, the Los Angeles-based artist has examined the impacts of the Cold War Era and the global arms trade through a trilogy titled Weapons of Mass Production, motivated by his upbringing in Apartheid-era South Africa. More than half a decade in the making, “The MiG-21 Project” completes the series.

The first installment, “The AK-47 Project,” reimagined the aesthetic of one of the world’s most ubiquitous wartime weapons, the Avtomat Kalashnikova 1947, by sculpting dozens of the guns and coating them in colorful glass beads. The second project revolved around the Casspir, a heavy-duty Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected Vehicle (MRAPV) introduced in the 1970s, which he likewise ornamented in vibrant geometric patterns.

“The idea was to take these weapons of war and to repurpose them,” Ziman says, flipping the narrative about icons of violence and transforming them instead into symbols of resilience, collaboration, and collectivity. Vehicles and firearms morph into a theater of hope and strength in the face of a terrible 20th-century legacy.

Apartheid, which in Afrikaans means “separateness,” is the name assigned by the minority white-ruled Nationalist Party of South Africa to a harsh system of racial segregation that began in 1948. The period lasted until 1991 and was closely linked within the context of international relations to the Cold War as tensions erupted between the U.S. and the former U.S.S.R. Spurred by the deterioration of the two countries’ WWII alliance and fears about the spread of Communism into the West, the war began in 1947 and also ended in 1991 when the U.S.S.R. was dissolved.

During this time, the Russians produced a fighter jet called the Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-21. The plane is “the most-produced supersonic fighter aircraft of all time,” Ziman says. “The Russians built 12,500 MiG-21s, and they’re still in use today—just like the Casspir and just like the AK-47s. But it’s one thing to say, hey, I want to bead a MiG, and then the next thing, you’ve got a 48-foot MiG sitting in your studio.”

“The MiG-21 Project” combines photography and costume design with historical research and time-honored Indigenous craft. The project encompasses not only the jet but a series of cinematic photographs and elaborate Afrofuturist regalia inspired by military flight suits, African tribal textiles, and space travel.

Ziman’s team comprises numerous skilled artisans from Zimbabwe and Indigenous Ndebele women from South Africa’s Mpumalanga Province, who are renowned for their beadwork. For the Ndebele, beadwork is a means of expressing cultural identity and rites of passage, taking on powerful political connotations in the 20th century as it became associated with pre-colonial African traditions and identity.

Tapping into the lessons of our not-so-distant past, Ziman addresses current conflicts like war and the global arms race, modern colonialism, systemic racism, and white supremacy through the lens of Apartheid. Funds raised throughout the process, part of the mission of the Weapons of Mass Production trilogy as a whole, are being donated to the people of Ukraine in support of the country’s ongoing conflict with Russia.

You’ll be able to see the “The MiG-21 Project” later this year in Seattle, where it will be on view from June 21 to January 26, 2026, at the Museum of Flight. Explore more on Ziman’s website.

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During the Soviet era, modernist architecture rose to popularity as a means to express power, prestige, and views toward the future following World War II. Across Eastern Europe, asymmetric details, geometric rooflines, circular footprints, monumental murals, and blocky brutalist structures rose in defiance of pre-war classical and vernacular styles.

In Ukrainian Modernism, Kyiv-based photographer and researcher Dmytro Soloviov’s first book, the nation’s under-recognized mid-20th-century built heritage takes center stage.

“Ukraine’s modernist buildings are an extraordinary blend of function, avant-garde aesthetics and ingenious design, but despite these qualities, they remain largely unrecognised,” says a statement from FUEL, which will release the book later this month.

Soloviov chronicles a buildings that are often stigmatized for their inception during the Soviet era and subsequent neglect and redevelopment over time. In the face of the nation’s struggle to overcome Russia’s ongoing incursion, war continues to threaten historic buildings. Ukrainian Modernism combines Soloviov’s contemporary photos with archival images, exploring the breadth of the region’s architectural marvels.

Preorder your copy on FUEL’s website.

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In the summer of 2022, a team of deep-sea researchers spent six weeks in the North Atlantic Ocean at a remote site about 370 nautical miles off the coast of Newfoundland. The final resting place of RMS Titanic, which sank on April 14, 1912, the ocean floor bears the magnificent remains of the 883-foot-long vessel. When the ship disembarked from Southampton, England, it carried more than 2,200 passengers and crew, but only about 700 were rescued after it struck an iceberg.

Using remotely operated underwater vehicles, scientists explored the wreck from a range of vantage points, expanding their survey across a debris field that stretches as wide as three miles. The aim of this expedition revolved around capturing an unprecedented digital view of the ship, enabling a lifelike, virtual reconstruction.

Two submersibles captured a whopping 16 terabytes of data, comprising 715,000 images and a high-resolution video. The files were processed and assembled over the course of seven months to create what Atlantic Productions head Anthony Geffen describes as a “one-to-one digital copy, a ‘twin,’ of the Titanic in every detail.”

Released last Friday, Titanic: The Digital Resurrection chronicles the monumental task of capturing the footage and creating a never-before-seen view of the famous site. Produced by Atlantic Productions and National Geographic, the film follows the crew of deep-sea investigation outfit Magellan as they explored the iconic, hulking remains.

“Accurate to the rivet,” a statement says, the film traces nearly two years of research by historians, scientists, and engineers. “Their mission is to review and challenge long-held assumptions, including reconstructing a minute-by-minute timeline of the tragedy to uncover new insights into the ship’s final moments on that fateful night in 1912.”

Titanic: The Digital Resurrection is now streaming on Disney+ and Hulu.

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From aerial views of modern-day Venice to a 15th-century caravanserai in Kyrgyzstan, Christopher Wilton-Steer’s awe-inspiring photographs capture contemporary views of life along a series of 1,500-year-old trade routes. An extraordinary historical, cultural, and archaeological phenomenon, the Silk Road connected China in the East to Rome and the Mediterranean in the West.

Around 4,000 miles long in its entirety and comprising numerous linking routes—some of which still exist as highways today—the network was used to transport valuable silks from China westward while sending wool and precious metals east. Travelers also transmitted global news, religious beliefs, and disease—most famously The Black Death in the 14th century—along the storied route.

In The Silk Road: A Living History, forthcoming from Hemeria, Wilton-Steer traces the trade artery from Italy through the Balkans and into Turkey, wending through Iran, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Pakistan, and India, before continuing through the breadth of China.

Starting in London, the photographer traveled nearly 25,000 miles across Europe and Asia, detouring to visit nearby cities and cultural centers, mountains, deserts, remote communities, and spectacular architecture. He captures elaborate mosaic ceilings like those of the Tash Hauli Palace in Khiva, Uzbekistan, or the Shrine of Fatima Masumeh in Qom, Iran. And traces of medieval cities, like Ani in Turkey, sit timelessly in vast landscapes.

“When we fly somewhere, we arrive at the destination and most aspects of life of different,” Wilton-Steer says in a foreword. “Traveling overland, I wanted to experience the transitions between different cultures and gain a deeper understanding of what connects us.”

In our increasingly integrated world, trade is facilitated through elaborate pan-global shipping networks shaped by modern technologies. Yet the system is volatile, and the impacts of a global pandemic, accidents, or tariffs can usher in waves of disruption.

As China embarks on the world’s largest-ever infrastructure project through its Belt and Road Initiative, the legacy of the Silk Road is front-and-center as the endeavor aims to connect more than 60 percent of the global population.

Wilton-Steer is interested in the juxtapositions of contemporary life with ancient traditions, cultures, and historical narratives. Just as the Silk Road helped shape European and Asian civilizations hundreds of years ago, the route’s legacy underpins the region’s contemporary social, economic, and cultural spheres.

The Silk Road: A Living History will be released on May 20, and you can order your copy in Hemeria’s shop. Wilton-Steer is donating proceeds from the book to the Aga Khan Foundation, which addresses root causes of poverty and works to improve the quality of life in a number of countries along the Silk Road and further afield.

You might also enjoy Fatemeh Hosein Aghaei’s stunning photographs of historic Iranian mosques and palaces.

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In the second half of the 20th century, “brutalism and the shall-we-call-it ‘marketplace modernism’…when it appeared in the East, was always about spectacle,” Zupagrafika founders David Navarro and Martyna Sobecka say in a blog post about Eastern Bloc suburbia.

Brutalist housing estates and public buildings of the post-war Soviet era were built on a massive scale, often from concrete and prefabricated panels, to accommodate growing populations and to demonstrate power, socialist values, and modernity. Sometimes blocked in color or complemented by murals, these hulking structures largely emphasized monolithic forms, an unmissable PR message about communist ideology.

Brutalism is a study in contrasts—heaviness juxtaposed with balance; concrete set into the natural landscape. Eastern Blocks II, Navarro and Sobecka’s new book, captures some of these stark scenes, with expansive residential units rising above bucolic meadows or framed by nothing but snow. Functionality takes precedence over aesthetics.

Navarro and Sobecka have traveled the width and breadth of Eastern Europe, photographing the region’s unique architecture and expanding on the first volume published in 2019. Along with local photographers Alexander Veryovkin and Kseniya Lokotko, who captured views of Kaliningrad and Minsk, the authors chronicle a total of ten cities from Chișinău to Riga to Prague in more than 180 photos.

Find your copy on the publisher’s website. You might also enjoy Zupagrafika’s Kiosk, a survey of Eastern Europe’s disappearing tiny shops.

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