Pub Date : 2021-05-04DOI: 10.1080/23729333.2021.1909415
P. Vujaković
While walking across the rough pasture on the hills above Ashford, Kent (UK), I experienced a dramatic vision. The dull green grassland turned a solid flat bright yellow (Figure 1). It was over in an instance, like the shutter movement of an old fashion camera, but very real – as if triggered by a physical light stimulus – not as something in my ‘mind’s eye’. While not a case of synaesthesia, that phenomenon is the best way I can describe what happened. Synaesthesia is a neurological condition in which stimuli (e.g. reflected light) that usually affects one sense impacts on two or more others. Some synesthetes, for example, experience a ‘taste’ associated with a specific colour or word. Synaesthesia occurs when in normal circumstances a person might imagine a colour, but a synesthete will see it projected externally. For true synaesthesia the link is durable – this was not true for me, it has never happened again. A study of ‘colour-grapheme’ synesthetes indicates that pairings of letters with colours was traceable to childhood toys containing coloured letters (Witthoft & Winawer, 2013); the authors characterise this as ‘learned synaesthesia’. By the time I had my experience I had been using Land Utilisation Survey (LUS) maps (1930s) in local field teaching for decades (‘Weald of Kent & Hastings’ sheets 125 & 135). It seemed probable that the experience must have been stimulated by my familiarity with the LUS – the bright yellow I experienced represents ‘Heath, Moorland, Commons and rough pasture’. Clearly, maps can be a significant element in an immersive relationship with place (Vujakovic & Hills, 2017), not just as a navigation aid and store of spatial information but as an artefact that affords constant re-reading of, and re-engagement with a familiar milieu. Topographic maps (e.g. the British Ordnance Survey (OS) series, and related products, such as the LUS), provide a partial but significant representation of the cultural landscapes we inhabit. This paper argues for a ‘dwelling’ perspective (see below) in understanding the relationship between maps, person, and place, but one in which we need to understand the role of both agency and structure. Agency is the individual’s ability to think and act independently. By contrast, structure involves factors that constrain or limit agency. Structure can involve issues such as economics, social class, gender, and social mores.
当我走过英国肯特郡阿什福德(Ashford)上方山丘上粗糙的牧场时，我经历了一幅戏剧性的景象。灰暗的绿色草地变成了坚实平坦的亮黄色(图1)。这一切就在一瞬间结束了，就像老式相机的快门运动，但又非常真实——仿佛是由物理光刺激引发的——而不是我“心灵之眼”中的东西。虽然不是联觉，但这种现象是我能描述的最好的方式。联觉是一种神经系统疾病，通常影响一种感觉的刺激(如反射光)会影响两种或两种以上的感觉。例如，一些联觉者体验到与特定颜色或单词相关的“味道”。在正常情况下，一个人可能会想象一种颜色，但联觉者会看到它投射在外部。对于真正的联觉来说，这种联系是持久的——但对我来说却不是这样，再也没有发生过。一项关于“颜色-字素”联觉者的研究表明，字母与颜色的配对可以追溯到含有彩色字母的童年玩具(withthoft & Winawer, 2013);作者将其描述为“习得联觉”。到我有经验的时候，我已经在当地的实地教学中使用土地利用调查(LUS)地图(20世纪30年代)几十年了(‘Weald of Kent & Hastings’表格125和135)。这种体验似乎很可能是由于我对美国的熟悉而引起的——我所经历的明黄色代表着“荒原、荒野、公地和粗糙的牧场”。显然，地图可以成为沉浸式与地点关系的重要元素(Vujakovic & Hills, 2017)，不仅作为导航辅助和空间信息存储，而且作为一种人工物品，提供不断的重新阅读，并重新参与熟悉的环境。地形图(例如英国地形测量局(OS)系列)和相关产品，例如地形测量局地图(LUS)，提供了我们居住的文化景观的部分但重要的代表。本文主张从“居住”的角度(见下文)来理解地图、人和地点之间的关系，但我们需要同时理解代理和结构的作用。能动性是个人独立思考和行动的能力。相比之下，结构涉及约束或限制代理的因素。结构可以涉及经济、社会阶层、性别和社会习俗等问题。
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Pub Date : 2021-05-04DOI: 10.1080/23729333.2021.1927398
Carla Cristina Reinaldo Gimenes de Sena
Initially, when I was invited to write this essay, I thought about discussing the maps produced by XVI Century European navigators, which showed ‘Terra Brasilis,’ as Brazil was called during the period of Portuguese colonization, to the world for the first time. But, as I reflected on the importance of this text and the special edition of the International Journal of Cartography, I decided it would be much more appropriate to comment on map production in Brazil, something very much in line with my own academic experience. I have been a professor of School Cartography, among other university courses, for a little over 10 years, and before that, I was a Geography teacher at the primary and middle school levels for 19 years. During the period that I worked in basic education, I undertook my Master’s and Doctorate degree programs, which were always linked to the teaching of cartography, especially tactile cartography. When I was a teacher, I always worked with the most varied kinds of school maps and Atlases. This contextualization is important, because the work I have chosen, which is much more than a map, is part of my background as a teacher, both at school and at university, as it addresses the teaching of cartography as an essential element in the development of spatial thinking among children and young people. Accordingly, I chose ‘My First Atlas,’ a publication of the Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics (IBGE), as it was a work that captivated me for the care and the meticulous manner in which it presents the elements of the map, the production techniques and the choice of each representation (Figure 1). The IBGE, organizer of the work, is a Brazilian federal government entity. It was founded on 2 January 1938, replacing the National Institute of Statistics. Nowadays, its institutional mission is ‘to portray Brazil by providing the information required to the understanding of its reality and the exercise of citizenship,’ (IBGE, 2021) and today it is the main source of data and information on Brazil, responsible for the national census, economic surveys, geodesic data and the production of the topographical and thematic maps. Published in 2005, ‘My First Atlas’ is now in its fourth edition; it has 148 pages and it is divided into two parts, the first called ‘Constructing and Understanding Maps’, which teaches children the basics of cartography, and the second called simply ‘Maps,’ (Figure 2) which is similar to a traditional school Atlas.
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Pub Date : 2021-05-04DOI: 10.1080/23729333.2021.1924484
Igor Drecki
In late June 2019, I received an email from Chris McDowall, a good friend and geographer at heart, saying: ‘And the atlas...Ohman. This has been so stressful and I’ve tied myself up in all sorts of knots over it. Would you be free [...] to look over it with me if I dropped by for a couple of hours?’ I agreed, little knowing what I am about to experience! A few days later, Chris walked in with a proof copy ofWeAre Here: An atlas of Aotearoa (Figure 1(a)) under his arm (McDowall & Denee, 2019). We sat down at a large layout table and... I was teleported to the world of cartography at its best. Every new map I looked at, every graph, every visualisation resonated withme,mademe curious and enquiring (and it still does). In a ‘user testing’ style I was reporting back to Chris what I thought about each plate, what worked for me, what I was not sure about. Having him sitting next to me was special as I was able to learn about his thinking behind the design choices he made in exchange. A couple of hours turned unnoticeably into four. My honest and spontaneous response to the atlas put Chris at ease; it seemed the ‘knots’ he had tied himself up in became loosened... Ten days later the book was sent to the printer. In an introduction to the atlas, Chris’ co-author and graphic designer for the project Tim Denee shares the following sentiment: ‘This is a book about a treasured place in the world and the people who live here, so it was important to us that the book had some grace.’ This approach has all the ingredients that are necessary when embarking on a cartographic project: the recognition of a worthwhile subject, the respect for the reader, and the promise of utilising talents to deliver beautiful, relevant and inspiring content. Mapping NewZealand, this treasured place, is always rewarding design-wise. If God ever looked for an inspiration to create Eden, there would be a very good chance it would have been Aotearoa. This dynamic and varied land provides a cartographer with infinite possibilities to map it, although it is not free from challenges. The devastating 2011 Christchurch earthquake that claimed the lives of 185 people is not a happy story, but one which needs to be told to understand New Zealand today. The atlas takes on this subject in an unorthodox fashion by refocusing the attention to the consequences of the event – The Sinking City, which in places subsided by half a metre or more. The preand post-event high definition terrain surveys provide the data, while the dark blue colouring of the areas affected most makes a logical association with liquefaction, chiefly responsible for literally sinking the city (Figure 1(b)). The black speckles of residential homes in Burwood that once were are reminiscent of the hundreds of people that lived there, their houses now gone.
{"title":"Cartography Is Here.","authors":"Igor Drecki","doi":"10.1080/23729333.2021.1924484","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1080/23729333.2021.1924484","url":null,"abstract":"In late June 2019, I received an email from Chris McDowall, a good friend and geographer at heart, saying: ‘And the atlas...Ohman. This has been so stressful and I’ve tied myself up in all sorts of knots over it. Would you be free [...] to look over it with me if I dropped by for a couple of hours?’ I agreed, little knowing what I am about to experience! A few days later, Chris walked in with a proof copy ofWeAre Here: An atlas of Aotearoa (Figure 1(a)) under his arm (McDowall & Denee, 2019). We sat down at a large layout table and... I was teleported to the world of cartography at its best. Every new map I looked at, every graph, every visualisation resonated withme,mademe curious and enquiring (and it still does). In a ‘user testing’ style I was reporting back to Chris what I thought about each plate, what worked for me, what I was not sure about. Having him sitting next to me was special as I was able to learn about his thinking behind the design choices he made in exchange. A couple of hours turned unnoticeably into four. My honest and spontaneous response to the atlas put Chris at ease; it seemed the ‘knots’ he had tied himself up in became loosened... Ten days later the book was sent to the printer. In an introduction to the atlas, Chris’ co-author and graphic designer for the project Tim Denee shares the following sentiment: ‘This is a book about a treasured place in the world and the people who live here, so it was important to us that the book had some grace.’ This approach has all the ingredients that are necessary when embarking on a cartographic project: the recognition of a worthwhile subject, the respect for the reader, and the promise of utilising talents to deliver beautiful, relevant and inspiring content. Mapping NewZealand, this treasured place, is always rewarding design-wise. If God ever looked for an inspiration to create Eden, there would be a very good chance it would have been Aotearoa. This dynamic and varied land provides a cartographer with infinite possibilities to map it, although it is not free from challenges. The devastating 2011 Christchurch earthquake that claimed the lives of 185 people is not a happy story, but one which needs to be told to understand New Zealand today. The atlas takes on this subject in an unorthodox fashion by refocusing the attention to the consequences of the event – The Sinking City, which in places subsided by half a metre or more. The preand post-event high definition terrain surveys provide the data, while the dark blue colouring of the areas affected most makes a logical association with liquefaction, chiefly responsible for literally sinking the city (Figure 1(b)). The black speckles of residential homes in Burwood that once were are reminiscent of the hundreds of people that lived there, their houses now gone.","PeriodicalId":36401,"journal":{"name":"International Journal of Cartography","volume":"74 1","pages":"211 - 217"},"PeriodicalIF":0.5,"publicationDate":"2021-05-04","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"85720106","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2021-05-04DOI: 10.1080/23729333.2021.1921379
T. Streifeneder, B. Piatti
The first impression is a delicate paper city with a river. Homes and blocks of houses formed from printed pages. The buildings are open at the top, the words and the text fragments unfold inside, in stylish typography, with some passages in capital letters, most of them clearly legible: ‘Like lost souls leaking’, ‘Fear’, ‘Germany’s full force’, ‘the last of sunset’, ‘safety curtain’ ... . But the most striking are its burnt, scorched parts. A paper city badly destroyed by fire: what a powerful image. If you have not already guessed, the title of the four-part work (4 panels) provides the information about the place and time: ‘London 1940’. The dimensions: 37′′×30′′. Picton’s sculptural maps are so fascinating and so convincingly prepared as allusive reliefs that one is literally sucked into them. Suddenly, you undertake a psychogeographical trip walking through dark, unlit street canyons with illuminated façades on both sides. The walls have become huge projection surfaces with man-sized letters telling place-based stories. The sentences drive you from house to house, street to street in a fantastic walkable narrated space.
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Pub Date : 2021-05-04DOI: 10.1080/23729333.2021.1912253
W. Cartwright
In 1985, I was lecturing in the Geography Department at Portsmouth Polytechnic. My lectures focused on cartographic design and production which focussed on the manual production of colour separation artwork, as part of the photo-mechanical production process, that led to subsequent printing via the printing press. Even thoughmy lecturing programme at the time was focused around paper production and delivery of geographic information, I was searching for an alternative, non-printing, and non-computer-driven, alternatives for portraying geographic information. I had experimented with interactive slides, film, photography, and television. In looking for a medium that would allow me to experiment with a conglomerate of graphics +maps, what I found in 1985 was interactive videodisc. In that year, I attended the Association of British Geographers conference and heard a paper presented by Doctor Helen Mounsey on Birkbeck College’s involvement in the development of the BBC/Philips/Acorn Computers-supported Domesday Project interactive videodisc. I later visited Birkbeck College in London in 1985, where I was briefed about their involvement in the project and viewed the ‘real thing’. The Domesday project was produced to commemorate the 900th anniversary of the original Doomsday Book of 1085. It was seen as a contemporary version of the 1085 book and a contemporary (1985) record of the geography and social activities carried out throughout Great Britain. Rather than being stored and delivered as a bound paper book, as the original Domesday records did, this product was a hybrid analogue/digital product. The possibilities of what could be achieved by interposing a computer and software between the keyboard and tracker ball allowed for the frames on the video disc to not just be viewed sequentially, but a specific frame could be viewed, frames could be played as movies and these could be accompanied by text and sound. It must be noted that the Domesday videodisc wasn’t the first geographically-related videodisc package. This was the Aspen Movie Map Project (1978), developed at the MIT Architecture Machine Group. This package used videodiscs, controlled by computers, to allow the user to ‘drive’ down corridors or streets of Aspen, Colorado (Negroponte, 1995a). Exposure to this videodisc system changed completely how I thought about how geographic information could be delivered, and it was the catalyst for my research in interactive integrated multimedia cartographic systems over the following 35 years.
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Pub Date : 2021-05-04DOI: 10.1080/23729333.2021.1925831
M. Peterson
There are times when technological innovations culminate in a series of rapid developments. We look back on these times with a certain awe. This is true for the three years in the mid-1990s, between 1993 and 1996, when web cartography came to be. The three years begin with the introduction of the first graphical World Wide Web (WWW) browser, Mosaic, in April of 1993. It ends three years later in 1996 with the introduction of MapQuest, the first widely-available, Web-based mapping program. To put the period between 1993 and 1996 in context, it begins exactly 10 years after the military network called ARPAnet transitioned to the US National Science Foundation NSFnet and the new Transmission Control Protocol / Internet Protocol (TCP/IP). This occurred on January 1, 1983, a date that many associate with the beginning of the Internet. The event contributed to a major expansion of the Internet. A quarter-century later, we can view this time as a rapid evolution, if not revolution. Given the current importance of the Internet and the World Wide Web to cartography and our daily lives, it is fitting that we examine these years and how innovations during this time contributed to a dramatic change in map distribution, and map use. The specific purpose here is to examine MapQuest, the developments that preceded it and how it changed the way we use maps. We divide this retrospective into three timeperiods: (1) a pre-Mosaic period; (2) the time between Mosaic and MapQuest; and (3) the MapQuest era. Finally, we look at how MapQuest, major, online map provider between 1996 and 2009, was ultimately overtaken by Google Maps.
{"title":"MapQuest and the beginnings of web cartography","authors":"M. Peterson","doi":"10.1080/23729333.2021.1925831","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1080/23729333.2021.1925831","url":null,"abstract":"There are times when technological innovations culminate in a series of rapid developments. We look back on these times with a certain awe. This is true for the three years in the mid-1990s, between 1993 and 1996, when web cartography came to be. The three years begin with the introduction of the first graphical World Wide Web (WWW) browser, Mosaic, in April of 1993. It ends three years later in 1996 with the introduction of MapQuest, the first widely-available, Web-based mapping program. To put the period between 1993 and 1996 in context, it begins exactly 10 years after the military network called ARPAnet transitioned to the US National Science Foundation NSFnet and the new Transmission Control Protocol / Internet Protocol (TCP/IP). This occurred on January 1, 1983, a date that many associate with the beginning of the Internet. The event contributed to a major expansion of the Internet. A quarter-century later, we can view this time as a rapid evolution, if not revolution. Given the current importance of the Internet and the World Wide Web to cartography and our daily lives, it is fitting that we examine these years and how innovations during this time contributed to a dramatic change in map distribution, and map use. The specific purpose here is to examine MapQuest, the developments that preceded it and how it changed the way we use maps. We divide this retrospective into three timeperiods: (1) a pre-Mosaic period; (2) the time between Mosaic and MapQuest; and (3) the MapQuest era. Finally, we look at how MapQuest, major, online map provider between 1996 and 2009, was ultimately overtaken by Google Maps.","PeriodicalId":36401,"journal":{"name":"International Journal of Cartography","volume":"38 1","pages":"275 - 281"},"PeriodicalIF":0.5,"publicationDate":"2021-05-04","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"74748869","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Pub Date : 2021-05-04DOI: 10.1080/23729333.2021.1910185
A. Kent
Maps stimulate our minds and our senses. The best maps force us to stop, gaze, and to rethink the way we see their subject, often through their powerful combination of a new perspective with a new aesthetic. Some cartographic encounters, however, also transform the map. There has hardly been a greater demonstration of the ‘afterlife’ ofmaps than those produced in secrecy by the General Staff of the Soviet Union as they emerged from the collapse of the USSR. They have since been used in a range of contexts, from supporting the US invasion of Afghanistan in 2001 (Lee & Shumakov, 2003) to art exhibitions in the UK (Gec, 2019). The full extent of Soviet globalmilitarymappingproject is yet to be revealed andonly limited informationhasbeengleaned fromstudies of themaps themselves (e.g. Davies&Kent, 2017). Today, however, their popular appeal transcends their value as historical documents. Soviet military maps present an unrealized vision of the world to the Western imagination – an unthinkable prospect to the cartographers who made them during the Cold War. This short paper outlines the Soviet military global mapping project and focuses on the city plan of Dover (UK) – a town local to the author – to offer a personal view of how Soviet military maps may be regarded as supreme examples of cartographic design with an enduring power to fascinate. Discussions concerning the wider rationale for the maps, assessments of national coverage, and more detailed analyses of individual sheets are to be found elsewhere (e.g. Kent & Davies, 2013; Davies & Kent, 2017; Davis & Kent, 2017; Kent et al., 2019; Cruickshank, 2020; and Svenningsen & Perner, 2020.)
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Pub Date : 2021-05-04DOI: 10.1080/23729333.2021.1911594
Imre Josef Demhardt
This story has two unsung heroes: a mountain, and a cartographer. First, there was the mountain and its environment. All around the edges of southern Africa, the major relief features are coastal lowlands separated by the Great Escarpment from interior highlands. In southwestern Africa, however, erosion has formed a gap between 19° and 23°S, where the coastal desert Namib continually rises to the level of the interior highlands. This inclined plane is perforated by several huge volcanic intrusions such as the Erongo and Brandberg (Figures 1 and 2). The latter forms a dome-shaped granite massif of about 450 km (26×21 km) with steep and barren flanks, rising with its core plateau up to 1500 m above the 500–800 m high transitional gravel plains of the coastal Namib desert to the interior dry steppe, about 90 km inland. Although the setting makes the Brandberg or ‘burnt mountain’, as the Dutch translated the local name, visible from a great distance, its early notice by Europeans is opaque. The Portuguese had reached these shores in 1484, but found them a sandy desert, which later acquired the telling name Skeleton Coast. Only in the nineteenth century did recorded observations of the interior begin, with British navigational charts showing a prominent inland elevation in the area but placing it too close to the coast for it to be the Brandberg. This ‘Mount Messum’, named for a British captain, moved around in mid-century maps, but possibly originates from vessel sightings of the low rim of what now is called Messum Crater, about halfway between the coast and the Brandberg. Missionary Hugo Hahn was the first European to see the massif, in 1871, from as far as Okombahe, and to note it in his travel diary, too, which informed an 1878 route compilation map by August Petermann (Figure 3). In 1884, the Namib coast between the Kunene and Orange rivers with the hinterland was annexed by Germany, which until World War I held onto it as Schutzgebiet Deutsch-Südwestafrika (Protectorate German South West Africa). In 1888, German officer Friedrich von Steinäcker was the first to explore by wagon and on horseback the rumored mineral deposits in the vicinity of the Brandberg. In the following year, 1889, German geologist Georg Gürich, on reconnaissance on behalf of a gold prospecting syndicate, failed in his attempts to enter the Brandberg gorges. That scientist was also the culprit for a gross miss judgement carried on maps for the next decades. He estimated that the summit plateau of the Brandberg rises only about 500 m above the
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Pub Date : 2021-05-04DOI: 10.1080/23729333.2021.1917332
Tom Patterson
Bradford Washburn’s (1910–2007) The Heart of the Grand Canyon map was born out of frustration. While visiting that iconic park with his wife Barbara in 1969, Washburn was ‘disturbed’ to find a total lack of detailed maps (Fry, 2019). The best map available then was a topographic sheet at 1:62,500 scale (one inch to the mile) and with 80-foot (24.4 m) contours. Besides lacking detail, this map used the standard symbology found on all US Geological Survey topographic maps, which failed to depict the unique character of the Grand Canyon. Thinking that the three million annual park visitors were being cartographically ill-served, Washburn decided to make a better map. So began an almost eightyear project, one involving family, friends, and volunteers, that culminated with his nowfamous map published by National Geographic. Washburn’s intent was to create a highly accurate map useful to scientific researchers that would also appeal to the layperson. The Heart of the Grand Canyonmap focuses on the main touristic area between Grand Canyon Village on the South Rim and Grand Canyon Lodge on the North Rim (Figure 1). How the map came to be is a remarkable story. Washburn, who was the Director of the BostonMuseum of Science, used his modest research budget at that institution to jump-start the project. Initially, it was a side project that he worked on while taking vacations. Having once worked as an instructor of cartography, Washburn was keenly interested in the latest scientific advancements in surveying and mapping, which meshed with his other passions – mountaineering, exploration, and aerial photography. He had already directed two other projects that resulted in world-class maps: Mount McKinley produced by swisstopo in 1960; and Mount Kennedy produced by National Geographic in 1968. Washburn would again work with these two organizations to complete The Heart of the Grand Canyon map. This is also a story about how working collaboratively can accomplish great things. The mapping had to start from scratch due to concerns about the accuracy of previous surveys done decades earlier. With his improvised team and working in a piecemeal manner depending on their schedules, Washburn set out to establish a control network to serve as a framework for ‘resurveying’ the canyon. He based the new control network on five first-order triangulation stations on the North and South rims that were known to be very accurate. The network was then extended, using theodolites and laser rangefinders, to the tops of prominent pinnacles and buttes visible from lower places within the canyon. Helicopters provided access to the more vertiginous crags. The resurveying also involved leveling (to determine elevation) and walking trails with distance measuring wheels. Field work took place from 1971 to 1975, including 144 days spent in the field and 712 helicopter landings (Washburn, 1978).
布拉德福德·沃什伯恩(1910-2007)的《大峡谷之心》地图是在挫折中诞生的。1969年，沃什伯恩和妻子芭芭拉一起参观这个标志性的公园时，发现完全没有详细的地图，他感到“不安”(Fry, 2019)。当时最好的地图是一张地形图，比例尺为1:62500(1英寸对1英里)，等高线为80英尺(24.4米)。除了缺乏细节外，这张地图使用了所有美国地质调查局地形图上的标准符号，无法描绘大峡谷的独特特征。沃什伯恩认为每年三百万的公园游客在制图方面没有得到充分的服务，于是决定制作一张更好的地图。于是，他开始了一项为期近8年的项目，包括家人、朋友和志愿者，最终他的地图在《国家地理》杂志上出版。沃什伯恩的目的是创建一个高度精确的地图，对科学研究人员有用，也会吸引外行人。大峡谷地图的中心集中在南缘的大峡谷村和北缘的大峡谷小屋之间的主要旅游区(图1)。地图是如何形成的是一个非凡的故事。沃什伯恩是波士顿科学博物馆(BostonMuseum of Science)的馆长，他用他在该博物馆有限的研究预算启动了这个项目。最初，这只是他在度假时做的一个副业项目。沃什伯恩曾经是一名制图学讲师，他对测绘方面的最新科学进展非常感兴趣，这与他的其他爱好——登山、探险和航空摄影——相吻合。在此之前，他还指导了另外两个项目，绘制出了世界一流的地图:1960年由瑞士地图公司(swisstopo)绘制的麦金利山地图;以及1968年由国家地理制作的《肯尼迪山》。沃什伯恩将再次与这两个组织合作，完成大峡谷的心脏地图。这也是一个关于如何协同工作才能成就大事的故事。由于担心几十年前进行的调查的准确性，制图工作不得不从头开始。沃什伯恩带领着他的临时团队，根据他们的时间表，零零碎碎地工作，开始建立一个控制网络，作为“重新勘测”峡谷的框架。他把新的控制网建立在南北边缘的五个一阶三角测量站的基础上，这些站被认为是非常精确的。随后，利用经纬仪和激光测距仪，该网络扩展到了峡谷内较低位置可见的突出尖塔和孤峰的顶部。直升飞机提供了通往更令人眩晕的峭壁的通道。重新勘测还包括水准测量(以确定标高)和用距离测量轮测量步道。实地工作从1971年到1975年进行，包括144天的实地工作和712次直升机着陆(Washburn, 1978年)。
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Pub Date : 2021-05-04DOI: 10.1080/23729333.2021.1924485
Andrés Arístegui
The Industrial Revolution, Capitalism and the Liberal State gradually settled in Western Europe during the late eighteenth century and the first half of the nineteenth century. This process began in England and France with the Industrial and the French Revolutions. It then spread across the continent in times of Napoleon. Its rate of growth slowed with the Congress of Vienna in 1815. From1848onwards, it reached anewpeakwith the popular revolutions and their effects, which swept through Europe giving birth to new states such as Germany and Italy, based on a new conception of economic, social and political structures. This period meant in Spain, as in the rest of Western Europe, this break-up of the economic, social and political frame of the Ancient Régime and the leap to the Industrial Revolution, Capitalism and the Liberal State. These profound transformations aimed to provide the new productive forces with modern technical means that could help exploiting the raw materials and developing the country. New official institutions were to be settled in order to help scrutinising and representing Spain. In other words, new public bodies had to be founded for gathering precise statistical data, establishing a new cadastre to collect taxes more efficiently, creating a modern topographic map based on a national geodetic grid, drawing thematic maps to reveal the raw materials in the country, etc. Regarding cartography, the evolution in representing the Iberian Peninsula underwent only slight variations and improvements from the end of the Middle Ages until approximately 1750. There was a strong scientific progress during the second half of the eighteenth century when drawing up an accurate National Topographic Map became a relevant matter of concern (see Camarero, 2006). Nevertheless, these projects from the mid-eighteenth century did not come to fruition and mapping projects fell into a ‘morass’ during the first half of the nineteenth century (Paladini, 1991). Thus, the most precise maps available in Spain by 1850 dated from the second half of the eighteenth century and looked similar to those from 1600 (Hernando, 2005). These maps were useful in terms of geographic information. However, they did not provide any geometric accuracy as they had not been drawn upon precise geodetic and topographical measurements. Therefore, these maps were clearly insufficient for the needs of the industrial era. Several Commissions were set up in the 1850s with the aim of observing and calculating the geodetic and levelling grids, drawing up the National Topographic Map and drawing up the Spanish Cadastre. This institutional and technical decanting process
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